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WE PARTED AT THE ALTAR. 


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WE PARTED AT THE ALTAR 


a Nouci. 










BY 


/ 


LAURA JEAN LIBBEY, 


Author of “A Mad Betrothal ,” “lone,” “ Parted by Fate,” 

u FloribePs Lover,” etc., etc. 


v* 




WITH ILL US Tit A TIONS BY W ARMEN B. DAVIS. 




- j : 

‘ A 


NEW YORK : / Q ) Lj X„ 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

PUBLISHERS. 




THE. LEDGER LIBRARY: ISSUED SEMI-MONTHLY. SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, TWELVE DOLLARS PER ANNUM. NO, 
FEBRUARY 1, 109?. ENTfcREQ AT THE NEW YORK, N. Y., PO$T QFFIQE AO 8£C0ND CLA9$ MAIL MATTER, 






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Copyright, 1887 and 1892, 

BY ROBERT BONNER’S SONS. 


(All rig Jits reserved.) 


f 



WE 

PARTED AT THE ALTAR, 


CHAPTER I. 

“ TO THE GRAND BALL.” 

Choose not alone a proper mate. 

But proper time to marry,” 

HEN you read what I have writ- 
ten here, I shall be lying cold in 
death.” 

The words were written by 
the trembling white hand of a 
young girl, standing in her 
bridal robes alone, at midnight, 
in the vestry of an old, isolated 
church. 

Continuing, she wrote rapidly on the leaf she had 
torn from the marriage register : 



[ 7 ] 



8 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ Despite the shock, it will not matter much to 
you, although but a few moments since — only a few 
moments — you led me to the altar, and vowed there 
to love and cherish me — oh, cruel words ! Oh, false 
vows! — when you know your heart was cold and 
bitter toward me. 

“ I am going to set you free, knowing I must 
part from you. I am young to die ; but death is 
sweeter than life without you. Yes, at the very 
altar you shall have your freedom back again. 

“ Your poor, unhappy, loving Doris.” 

Let us read the romance of the few brief days 
that led to the love of this ill-mated bride and 
groom ; how they met, and what caused this hasty 
and most reckless of all reckless marriages ; and 
why the young bride fled from her bridegroom at 
the very altar. 

Only three days previous to the opening of our 
story, on a sunny June afternoon, the hands of the 
great clock on the wall of Madame Delmar’s fashion- 
able seminary at Beech grove, Maryland, are 
slowly creeping around to the' closing hour of four, 
but it seems to the restless, bright-eyed seminary- 
f iris that the closing hour will never roll around 
',0-day. 

The bell taps at last, lessons are over, and a 
moment later a bevy of young ladies come fluttering, 
laughing and chatting down the broad stone steps, 


To the Grand Ball. 


9 


u 


as only bright, romping, happy light-hearted school- 
girls — who know nothing of the cares of the world 
— can laugh and talk. 

Among the group, yet quite apart from the rest, 
was a slight, fair young girl, differing from her com- 
panions by being far prettier. Her plain muslin 
dress, reduced almost to shabbiness, was sadly in 
contrast to their dainty, ruffled mulls ; but you 
would lose sight of this in gazing at the exquisite, 
piquant beauty of the dimpled rosebud-face, framed 
in curled golden hair, and the large blue eyes — 
deeply, beautifully blue, like the heart of a velvet 
pansy ; yet she was only Doris Brandon, madame’s 
dependant ward. 

Turning abruptly into a side path, Doris crossed 
the lawn with flying footsteps. Reaching a secluded 
spot at the lower end of the spacious grounds, she 
flung herself down on the daisy-studded grass, sob- 
bing as though her heart would break. 

Angry, defiant, rebellious tears they were, and sure- 
ly no young girl ever had more bitter cause to weep. 

“ Oh, dear ! oh, dear !” she sobbed, dashing the 
great pearly dew-drops away with a slim white 
hand, “ if my life were only like the life of other 
young girls! Oh, it was bitterly cruel of madame 
to taunt me with my dependence before the whole 


IO 


Parted at the Altar . 


school to-day ! If I only had wings, like this brown 
linnet in the tree over my head, how quickly I 
would fly from this dreary prison. I am young, 
and life runs warm in my veins, fills my heart, beats 
in every pulse ; yet how can I live without even 
one of those things that make life endurable ? How 
much longer is this monotonous life to last, I won- 
der.” 

It was to end sooner than she knew ; this very 
day was to be the turning point of her life, whether 
for weal or for woe, ah ! who shall say ? 

She removed her hat, and the June sunshine fell 
unheeded on the graceful head crowned with tum- 
bled, golden hair, that framed the flushed, pretty, 
tear-wet face. 

A slight wind raised the hat from the grass, and 
bending forward quickly to recover it, she caught 
sight of her own face in the clear, babbling brook 
that flowed through the grounds and on to the 
glittering Chesapeake. 

“ Ah ! if that face belonged to any one else it 
would be called very pretty. It is fairer than 
Vivian Courtney’s and they rave about her beauty. 
Who could find anything to admire in a poor little 
nobody like me ? I might as well have been ugly, 
for all the good my beauty does me,” sighed Doris. 

There was a time coming when that same face 


To the Grand Ball ' 


u 


ft 


1 1 


was to be more brilliant, when crowds were to sur- 
round it and do homage to its loveliness. But it 
was never fairer than on this sunlit afternoon when 
Doris Brandon bent over the stream and moaned for 
the dreariness of her young life. 

The far-off shriek of the incoming afternoon 
express startled her, and she sprang to her feet with 
a little cry. 

“ I had almost forgotten to go down to the south 
gate and watch for Vivian Courtney’s beau, who is 
to come by that train, and deliver to him the letter 
she intrusted to me to give him.” 

Picking up her sun-hat, and hastily tying the blue 
ribbons under her dimpled chin, Doris rose quickly, 
and glancing furtively back at the grim seminary 
walls, sped away in the direction of the old south 
gate on her fateful errand. 

At that moment the Southern express, which was 
twenty minutes late, steamed into the little station 
of Beech Grove, on the Chesapeake. 

From the rear car sprang a handsome young man, 
who gazed about him quite doubtfully, a moment 
after the train steamed on. 

He is a tall, handsome, well-dressed young fel- 
low, dark as to hair and complexion, and thoroughly 
aristocratic, from the straw hat which is pushed 
rather carelessly back from his broad, white brow 


12 


Parted at the Altar . 


to the toe of his polished boot, which he is tapping 
rather impatiently with his gold-mounted, ebony 
walking-stick. 

“ Ah ! that must be the place,” he says to himself, 
eying curiously a large stone building with many 
turrets and gables. “ Yes, that must be Madame 
Delmar’s seminary. Vivian said I couldn’t possibly 
miss it.” 

And for the twentieth time that afternoon he 
drew from his breast pocket a dainty, perfumed, 
pink-tinted, monogramed letter, which was directed 
in a girlish hand to “ Mr. Frederick Thornton, 
Jr., care of Mr. G. Thornton, Esquire, Banker, No. 
— Wall street, New York.” 

He drew the dainty letter from the envelope, and 
looked carefully at the directions in the postscript 
again : 

“ Take the path to the right of the station, and it 
will lead you directly to the seminary, by way of 
the old south gate. 1 will be there waiting for you. 
Be sure you come in time for the grand ball. I 
have set my heart on going. It will be a wonder- 
ful affair. All the girls of the school are just wild 
over it, and can scarcely wait for Tuesday evening 
to roll around. I must close now, in order to 
watch my opportunity to smuggle this into the 
mail-bag and outwit madame, whose argus eyes are 


To the Grand Ball."' 


13 


it 


ever on the alert to prevent billets-doux from leav- 
ing her establishment. 

“ Yours in great haste, 

“Vivian Courtney.” 

“ Pretty, willful Vivian,” he mused, with a smile 
and a flush on his handsome face. “ Before I leave 
Beech Grove, you will have to answer 4 yes ’ or ‘ no * 
to a certain question that has been agitating my 
heart this many a day.” 

He walked quickly up the daisy-bordered path, 
thinking of the bright, girlish eyes that would be 
watching for him from one of the dormitory 
windows. 

Turning an abrupt curve in the path, he came 
suddenly in sight of the white, arched gate of the 
seminary grounds ; and standing beneath the tall 
arch, under the waving plumes of a lilac tree, was a 
picture he never forgot while his life lasted — a 
picture that would have startled any young man 
who was a beauty-worshiper ; and with the sight, 
all thoughts of Vivian flew from his mind. 

At the first rapid glance he had beheld a slim 
young girl in a blue dotted muslin dress, a bewitch- 
ingly pretty face, half shaded by a broad straw hat, 
and waving, golden hair, a small, red, smiling 
mouth, and a pair of wonderful blue eyes. 


H 


Parted at the Altar . 


He approached, raising his straw hat with a low 
bow. 

“ 1 expected to see Miss Courtney here,” he said, 
rather confusedly for this debonair, worldly young 
man. “ I—” 

“ I am here in Vivian Courtney’s place, or rather, 
to deliver a letter to you from her, if you are Mr. 
Frederick Thornton, and I suppose you are,” she 
interrupted eagerly. 

He smiled amusedly, and bowed, and she drew 
from the folds of her pocket a tiny little note which 
she placed in. his hands. 

She was just turning to leave him, when he said, 
eagerly : 

“ Please don’t go yet. This may require an 
answer.” 

So Doris waited patiently by the gate, stealing 
shy glances now and then from under her long, 
curling lashes at the face of the handsome young 
stranger as he perused her schoolmate’s note. 

Doris Brandon had never seen such a handsome 
young man before. The French masters and the 
music professors of the seminary were cross and 
very ugly. The doctor and the rector, who came 
occasionally, were both old, and the few young men 
in the village that lay over the hill were very com- 
mon-place sort of persons, indeed. No wonder this 


“ To the Grand Ball. 


15 


smiling, handsome young man quite captivated 
Doris’s girlish fancy at first sight. 

The note which Vivian had written contained 
but a few tear-blotted words, and was as follows : 

“ Dear Frederick : — Father has come quite 
unexpectedly, and I am to go home with him, he 
says. We have barely time to reach the train. Oh, 
how disappointed you will be when you come. I 
am, oh, so sorry. Fate seems against us. What a 
pity it is to miss the ball, too, after I had set my 
heart on going. I hope I shall not lose all that I 
set my heart on. I shall have to get some one of 
the school-girls to meet you and deliver this to you. 
I don’t know who yet. 

“ Yours, in the greatest kind of a hurry, 

“ Vivian.’’ 

“ P. S. — Come back to town by the next return 
train.” 

“ There is no answer,” said Mr. Thornton, smil- 
ing, and adding, imploringly : “But won’t you sit 
down on this log for a moment, and tell me, please, 
how it was that Vivian left the seminary so hastily, 
and what she said to you when she intrusted you 
with this note.” 

Blushing prettily, and thinking it would be quite 
ill-mannered to refuse him, Doris sat down. 

“Vivian’s father came quite unexpectedly for 




i6 


Parted at the Altar . 


her,” she said, quite unconscious that she was 
repeating the words of the note, and that he knew 
all about it already, “ and just as she was going 
down the steps with her father she thrust two notes 
into my hand ; one was to me and read : 

“ ‘ Give the other note to a young man who is to 
come on the afternoon train and be at the old south 
gate at four o’clock this afternoon. Watch sharp 
for him, and don’t let madame see or know. Of 
course I know it’s a little bit wrong to deceive 
madame, but oh, it’s so romantic, you know.’ ” 

Frederick Thornton smiled again as he stood 
leaning carelessly against the trunk of a tree, watch- 
ing her. 

“ What a sweet, guileless little creature she is,” 
he thought. 

At that moment a sharp, rasping voice broke 
harshly on the summer air, calling loudly : 

“ Doris ! Doris Brandon, where are you ? I want 
you !” 

It was droll to see how the birds flew out of their 
nests, gave a terrified whirl back again, singing 
loudly to each other, as though they would say : 

“ Look ! look ! Here in our green, shady para- 
dise is an angry woman !” 

Doris sprang from her mossy seat in alarm. 



A VISION of GIKUSH loveliness, -See Chapter V. 







To the Grand Ball. 


17 


“ It is Madame Delmar,” she cried, in affright. 
“ How angry she would be with me if she found me 
loitering here.” 

With a little nod of her curly head, she would 
have sprung down the shady path, but Frederick 
Thornton put out his white hand detainingly. A 
sudden impulse came to him to see this fair young 
girl again, and that was the beginning of the fatal 
end. 

“ Will you come here to-morrow afternoon at 
this time for a note to deliver to Vivian when she 
returns to school?” he asked, earnestly. 

“ Yes,” she promised, hastily, and in an instant she 
was lost to sight among the trees. 

“ Doris Brandon. Ah, what a pretty name, and 
what a pretty young girL But somehow, she 
does not look quite happy,” he mused, as he turned 
away with something very like a sigh. 

Doris eluded madame by taking another path to 
the seminary. Her little heart was in a strange 
whirl and a dark smiling face seemed to dance 
between her and the sunlight. Poor child ! She 
would have had a happy enough life of it if her 
path had never been crossed by this handsome 
young man. 



CHAPTER II. 

THE LOVERS. 

Frederick Thornton paced up and down the lane 
before the old south gate, quite half an hour the 
next afternoon before Doris made her appearance. 

“ I was afraid you had quite forgotten your 
promise to come here to-day, Doris. You will 
pardon me for calling you that ; it sounds so much 
sweeter than to say Miss Brandon,” he added. 

“I should hardly know how to answer to the 
name of Miss Brandon,” she said, thoughtfully. 
“You are the first person who ever addressed me 
so ; every one calls me Doris ; I like it best. As 
to my coming late, madame was very cross with 
me to-day. I could not get away before.” 

Ah, how sorry he looked. 

“ I heard over at the village that the present 
term at the seminary closed yesterday afternoon, 
and most of the young ladies had returned to their 
respective homes. I feared you had gone after I 
had seen you,” he said ; “ and as to the note, it was 
useless to write it in that case.” 

L18] 


The Lovers. 


T 9 


“You thought 1 was a pupil here?” she asked, 
laughing softly, while the color came and went in 
her pretty, dimpled cheeks. 

“ Yes, I thought so,” he answered. “ Is it not 
so?” 

“ Oh, dear no,” she answered, with a merry, girl- 
ish laugh. “ I am only Madame Delmar’s ward. I 
have lived here always.” 

“ Always?” he repeated, wonderingly. 

She nodded her curly head. 

He was a stranger in that locality or he would 
not have asked that question. Every one in the 
village knew Doris’s history — how, seventeen years 
before, a stranger, heavily veiled, had been seen 
making her way in the dusky twilight through the 
village streets, pausing now and then to ask a stray 
pedestrian which road led to “ the young ladies’ 
seminary.” Each one that she spoke to noticed that 
she carried a heavy, dark basket, and that her voice 
was low and tremulous. The next morning the 
strange dark basket was found on the steps of the 
seminary, but the veiled woman had disappeared. 

When the basket was brought to Madame Delmar 
and she opened it, she threw up her hands with a 
gasp of horror and dismay. 

“ There’s — a — a — baby in it !” she cried, in conster- 
nation. 


20 


Parted at the Altar. 


A note was found pinned to the baby’s breast ; it 
contained only a few words, in delicate chirography, 
which read as follows : 

“ In the name of humanity do not turn this found- 
ling from your roof. Give her the name that she 
must bear — Doris Brandon.” 

Simply these words — no more. 

Madame fretted and fumed, but ended by keeping 
the child. Although she grew up a singularly pretty 
girl, madame could never quite overcome her great 
prejudice against her, and she quite believed the 
girl was born for her especial annoyance — to be her 
especial cross. Madame was strict, grim and hard 
with her. She had too many tasks set for her to 
loiter among her companions, and her dresses were 
always so shabby, being made from those cast off 
by madame, that she was rather glad than otherwise 
to escape the gaze and close scrutiny of the seminary 
girls as much as possible. 

Doris never. knew how it happened, but as they 
stood there under the waving lilac blooms, with one 
question leading to another, she had told this hand- 
some stranger all of her simple history — a history 
so dark and so unutterably dreary for such a fair 
young girl, he thought, pityingly, as he looked at 
pretty, shy Doris. 

“And when vacations roll around — then the place 


The Lovers . 


21 


is closed up, all save the western wing — it is indeed 
like a prison/’ she sighed. “ Yes, yesterday was the 
last day of the term ; every one has gone, and life 
will be very lonely for me,” and the red lips 
quivered. 

“ I shall be staying a few days longer in the vil- 
lage,” he said. “ Do you think Miss Delmar would 
permit me to call upon you ?” 

Doris drew back with a merry laugh. 

“ You do not know madame,” she said, laughingly. 
“ I would not dare mention your name to her, she 
has such a terrible aversion to men. She often says 
if she were dying, her last solemn request to me 
would be, ‘ never to look with anything save hatred 
upon the face of men.’ So, you see, I would not dare 
introduce you to her ; she would forbid me to speak 
to you.” 

“You would not like that?” asked Frederick, 
gently. 

“ No,” confessed Doris, hot blushes dyeing her 
pretty, dimpled face. 

“ Nor should I,” he exclaimed, energetically. “ If 
she were to imprison you, keep you under lock and 
key because of it, I should be your Prince Charm- 
ing. I would find some way to rescue you from 
your dreary prison. Would you like to see me 


22 


Parted at the Altar. 


again ?” he asked, abruptly. “ Would you care for 
it ?” 

Poor, pretty, shy Doris ! She looked for one half 
moment into the depths of those dark, splendid eyes, 
then her own fell, and again a crimson flush suffused 
her face. He took her hands in his. 

“ If you will only say that you care for it, I will 
manage in some way. Do you care ?” he persisted. 

“ I — I — shouldn’t mind,” she faltered, shyly. 

“ You tell me you have never had one pleasure in 
all your young life,” he went on, earnestly. “ That 
is so sorrowful. Now, I have a plan in my mind 
that would give you a great treat.” 

She clasped her little hands together and gazed at 
him breathlessly. 

“ You have heard of the great ball that is to take 
place at Langdon villa to-morrow, Tuesday, night? 
Young Langdon was a college chum of mine. I can 
arrange it so that you can go, if you like.” 

“ I — could — go — to — the grand ball?” she gasped 
in dismay. 

“Yes,” he said, gayly, “but you would have to 
manage it by strategy. If I were to ask madame to 
permit you to go, you are sure she would refuse; so 
why ask her? It grieves me to hear you say you 
have had not one pleasure in your young life,” he 
said kindly. “ The lights and the music would be a 


The Lovers . 


23 


brilliant treat for you. I would not ask you to go, 
if I believed there could be the least possible harm 
in it ; it seems so cruel to deprive you of so much 
gayety. If you are brave enough to slip out of the 
grounds and meet me here, we will go to the ball, 
and I will bring you home any time you say.” 

Let it be thoroughly understood, dear reader, that 
no other thought save the one desire to give this 
beautiful, lonely girl a bright evening of happiness 
prompted him to make this impulsive offer. Fred- 
erick Thornton was a young man of the strictest 
honor. 

He was gay and careless — a beauty-worshiper, 
but no one ever yet attributed to him a dishonor- 
able action. He reverenced all women for the sake 
of his mother and fair sisters. No broken hearts 
had been laid at his door. Our readers will bear 
this in mind when they read what followed. 

It was such a novel, dazzling idea — the very 
thought of going to the grand ball — that it quite 
overcame Doris with intense childish delight. 

“Could I get back before half-past ten, do you 
think ?” she asked, breathlessly. “ Madame closes 
the house and the gates at that time.” 

“ Certainly,” he responded, promptly ; “ you see, 
this being a village, the affair commences at nine, 
instead of eleven. We could be there by nine and 


24 


Parted at the Altar . 


stay until ten, and it would not take us more than 
ten minutes to reach the seminary, don’t you see ?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, raising her great, childish, 
pansy-blue eyes to his face ; then suddenly they fell 
in great perplexity. “ I do not know what kind of 
dresses young girls wear to balls,” she said, with 
childish simplicity. “ Oh, I couldn’t go ; I have 
nothing fit to wear.” 

“ You could wear the white dress you have on,” 
he declared ; “ the best dressed young girls are 
always the simplest dressed and plainest.” 

“ Oh,” she cried, with pretty confusion, “ surely 
girls don’t wear anything like this ?" 

“ Indeed they do,” he persisted ; he lost sight of 
the fact that the plain muslin dress, which looked 
very pretty in the red glow of the sunset, and with 
that background of bright-hued roses and green 
leaves, would look sadly outrl when brought in 
contrast with the sheen of satins and costly robes. 

The elite of the whole country would be present 
at this ball. 

“ If you are quite sure of that, and sure it wouldn’t 
be wrong, I — I think I would like to go — oh, ever 
so much,” she faltered. 

And so, these thoughtless young people— she, a 
child of seventeen, and he, only a boyish young 


The Lovers . 


25 


fellow of four-and -twenty — settled the matter, and 
they lived to rue it while their lives lasted. 

At length the eventful Tuesday evening drew 
near. Oh, how eagerly Doris watched for the sun 
to set, the dusk to creep up, and the golden-hearted 
stars to come out. 

Nine o’clock struck from an adjacent belfry as 
Doris crept out of the seminary. The coast was 
quite clear; there was not an obstacle to overcome. 
Still the girl’s heart beat high with excitement; it 
was a terrible, almost an awful thing to do, yet she 
liked the excitement and enjoyed the danger, as the 
young and thoughtless always do. 

Madame Delmar, usually so grim and stern in all 
things, gave the girl her full freedom to roam in the 
moonlight where fancy willed — about the pictur- 
esque grounds that surrounded the old gray-stone 
seminary, and in this she committed a great error. 

“ The birds and the flowers cannot put nonsense 
into the girl’s romantic head,” she would tell her- 
self, grimly. Her peace of mind would have taken 
flight at once, if she had but dreamed that among 
the fragrant roses there lurked a young and hand- 
some man. 

Standing on an upper veranda in the shadow of 
one of the tall pillars, she saw the slight form flit 
across the grounds in the moonlight. 


26 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ I shall call her in presently,” thought madame. 
Then for the next half-hour she quite forgot about 
Doris. 

In making his way toward the old south gate the 
thought occurred to Frederick whether or not his 
dark-eyed Vivian would quite approve of this little 
romantic escapade when she heard of it, or not. 
But surely she could not quite find it in her heart 
because he — her lover — had stepped out of his way 
to give a lonely girl a few hours of pleasure. 

He was certainly Vivian’s lover. He had not 
declared himself in so many words; still, that had 
been only a question of time as to when he should. 
He might take a fancy to a pretty face for a day — 
but his heart always went back faithfully to Vivian. 

If fate had not taken Vivian away from the sem- 
inary so suddenly, there would certainly have been 
a formal engagement between them. The diamond 
betrothal ring he had bought to place on her little 
white hand still lay in his vest pocket. 

Vivian was not there to go to the ball, so what 
harm was there in taking poor, pretty little Doris, 
to whom it would be such a treat? If Vivian were 
displeased about this — Vivian, who was one day to 
be his bride — it would be his last escapade with any 
other girl, he promised himself. 



CHAPTER III. 

MARRYING IN HASTE. 

When Doris entered the grand ball-room she 
caught her breath with a cry of delight. 

“Oh, Mr. Frederick !” she gasped, clutching at 
his arm with her little, trembling white hands, “ it 
seems like fairyland — or — a — a glimpse of heaven !” 

Frederick Thornton laughed amusedly ; to him 
there was nothing out of the common in the banks 
of roses, the palms and waving ferns, the dazzling 
chandeliers, and the unique and brilliant costumes 
of bewitchingly pretty maidens and passt matrons. 

“ A young girl’s first ball does seem like a glimpse 
of fairy life,” he answered, gayly. “ Those that 
follow never seem quite so nice.” 

“ I shall always remember you when I think of 
my first ball,” she answered, impulsively. “ And, 
indeed, I am quite sure it will be my last and only 
one. No one will ever take me to a ball again.” 

“ Do not be so sure of that, Doris,” he replied, in 
a low voice. “ What are you thinking of that you 

[27] 


28 


Parted at the Altar . 


gaze so intently at that bank of roses?” he asked, 
curiously. 

“ I was thinking what a pity it was to cut them 
from the stem and bring them here, for just a few 
hours. By to-morrow they will all lie withered and 
dead against that wall.” 

“What a waste of pity!” he laughed. “They 
will have served their purpose well — gladdened the 
eye, delighted the sense. But come ; the band is 
about to strike up a waltz. I hope you have learned 
to waltz, Doris.” 

The hour that followed seemed like a dream to 
poor, pretty little Doris. She could have danced on 
amid the lights and the music forever and forever. 
And in the excitement, the revelry, the brilliancy, 
can it be wondered that time seemed fairly to take 
wings and whirl away ? Doris had been very much 
abashed at first to see that she was, as usual, the 
poorest dressed girl in the gay throng; but in the 
excitement of the lights and music, and in the 
exuberance of happy youth, she soon forgot it, and 
was enjoying herself as she had never enjoyed her- 
self before. 

The eyes of the gentlemen followed her admir- 
ingly, and the ladies, in consequence, were exceed- 
ingly jealous and envious, 


Marrying in Haste. 


29 


“Who is she?” they asked of each other. But 
nobody seemed to know. 

In all her simpleness and plainness, as is often the 
case, even amidst that throng of beauties, Doris was 
acknowledged the belle of the grand ball. 

Mrs. Langdon, the hostess, gazed at the pretty 
young girl in wonder, and at last she sought her 
son. 

“ Max,” she said, leading him aside, “ who is that 
young girl ? How came she here ? Who invited 
her?” 

“ I did, mother,” he responded, promptly. “ She 
is one of the seminary girls. Miss Doris Brandon 
is her name, I believe. You remember we sent a 
card to Miss Courtney. She could not attend. 
And my old chum there, Frederick Thornton, asked 
me to send a card to her, and, of course, I complied. 
Are you displeased, mother?” 

“ No,” she answered. “ Still, I should have been 
better pleased had I been consulted first. The girl 
is pretty, I grant you ; but she does not look quite 
at home in our set, and you know how particular I 
am in that regard.” 

“ She may be a little awkward,” laughed the son. 
“ School-girls have the reputation for being so. She 
must be our equal socially — some millionaire’s 
daughter— or Thornton would not be paying so 


30 


Parted at the Altar. 


much attention to her. He never takes a step back- 
ward in the social scale, you know." 

Mrs. Langdon looked relieved. On returning to 
the ball-room she observed that young Mr. Thorn- 
ton and the pretty belle of the ball had disappeared. 

As we have said, time flew by on golden wings. 

Neither Doris nor Frederick noted the fleeting 
moments. 

Over and over again Doris told herself how 
happy she was as she looked into Frederick Thorn- 
ton’s handsome face with glad, shining eyes. In 
those blissful moments, a woman’s heritage of love 
had come to her, and more than once that evening 
the thought occurred that her life would be doubly 
dark and dreary when he left the village. She 
dared not think of the cold, dark hours when she 
should see him no more. And like the faint echo 
of a dream, the words of the poet recurred to her : 

“ Perchance if we had never met 
I had been spared this vain regret ; 

And yet I could not bear the pain 
Of never seeing thee again.” 

Yes, Doris had learned to love him — love him 
with all the deep, romantic passion of her girlish 
heart. 

With youth, love is not a plant of slow growth, 


Marrying in Haste. 


The glance of an eye, the touch of a hand, a smile, 
a tender word, often lights the flame of a deathless 
love. 

In striving to be kind to Doris, to make this ball 
a happy, memorable epoch in her girlish life, Fred- 
erick Thornton had unwittingly opened her eyes 
to the truth. She was deeply in love with him. 

But, girl-like, she would have died rather than he 
should guess her sweet secret. 

Suddenly he paused abruptly, in the midst of a 
waltz. 

“ I am afraid it is almost time to go, Doris," he 
said, hurriedly taking out his watch and glancing 
at it. 

Great Heaven! was he mad or dreaming? It 
wanted exactly eight minutes to half-past ten — the 
time for closing the seminary gates. 

“ Doris," he said, gently. 

She turned a startled face toward him. 

“Oh, Mr. Frederick, what is it? Why do you 
look like that? What is the matter ?" 

“ We must go at once, Doris," he said. “ We 
have not a moment to lose. We have not seven 
minutes left to reach the seminary. It wants just 
that time to half-past ten." 

He never forgot the deadly, awful despair that 


32 


Parted at the Altar. 


came over her face — the ghastly pallor — how the 
blue eyes darkened with awful fear. 

“ Oh, Mr. Frederick !” she gasped. “ What shall 
1 do?” 

“Courage, Doris,” he said. “We can make it if 
you are quick in getting your wraps.” 

A moment more and they were out in the star- 
light together, fairly flying down the white road. 
He could barely keep pace with the girl’s fleet 
footsteps. 

She was out of breath as they reached the steep 
path that led up the rugged hillside to the sem- 
inary, and was obliged to take his arm. 

More and more deadly grew her fear as moment 
after moment slipped by. 

Frederick Thornton could hear the quick beating 
of the girl’s heart and the piteous sighs that shook 
her slender frame. 

“ Doris, are you crying ?” he suddenly asked, in 
deep distress. 

Before she could reply, from a church tower near 
them the hour of eleven rang out, slow, solemn 
strokes, each one a death-knell to Doris. 

She fell down on her knees in the path, unable to 
move a step further, sobbing as he had never heard 
any one sob in his life before. Ah ! the pity of it! 
His watch was half an hour late. 


Marrying in Haste . 


33 


He could see the great, heavy iron gate from 
where he stood. The gate was closed. 

“ Oh, Mr. Frederick ! Mr. Frederick! what shall 1 
do ?” moaned Doris. “ Madame will never let me 
enter her door again. Oh, I am lost! lost! lost ! I 
am homeless, penniless ! I will be thrown on the 
world’s mercy, with nowhere to go ! It was my 
only refuge, and now I have lost it ! Oh, if I could 
but die !” 

Frederick Thornton stood before the kneeling 
little figure like one petrified. 

“ 1 will take all the blame upon myself, Doris,” he 
said, huskily, “for assuredly the fault was mine in 
coaxing you to go. Come, cheer up. All will be 
well. Come, let us walk boldly up to the gate and 
ring the bell.” 

Doris drew back in terror too great for words. 

“ It would make matters no better. You do not 
know madame. She will never let me enter her door 
again. Oh, I wish I were dead !” 

“ I meant that you should have such a happy 
time in going to the ball,” he said, gently. “I am 
so sorry it has ended so.” 

She bowed her beautiful golden head until it 
touched the cold stones. 

“Where can I go? What shall I do,' Mr. Freder- 
ick?” she sobbed. “ I am so young and friendless ! 


34 


Parted at the Altar. 


Oh, I wish indeed that I had died when I was so 
happy amidst the lights and the music, dancing with 
you at the ball !” 

She was clinging to him like a terrified child, sob- 
bing piteously now. He was quite at a loss what 
to say to comfort her. 

“ Are you quite sure it will be as bad as you say, 
Doris?” he asked, hoarsely. “ Are you sure she will 
turn you from her door for this?” 

“ Oh, yes, yes,” sobbed Doris. “ I am as sure of 
it as though it had already happened.” 

As she speaks a strange thought flits through his 
brain — a thought that twenty-four hours ago he 
would have scouted. 

“Oh, what shall I do, Mr. Frederick?” she 
moaned. “ I am so young — I — I am afraid of the 
great, cold, cruel world.” 

“ You shall not face the cruel world, Doris,” he 
said, huskily. “ I am a gentleman. I cannot leave 
you in distress brought on by myself. There is 
but one way out of the difficulty, and that i[s this: 
I must marry you.” 

“ Marry me !” she echoes, her little hands drop- 
ping from her tear-stained eyes, and gazing at him 
aghast. 

“ Do you see any other way out of it?” he asks, 
repressing a groan that rose to his lips. “ I con- 


Marrying in Haste. 


35 


fess that I do not* under the circumstances. I must 
make the only atonement possible. I must make 
you my wife, if you are willing. It is the only 
reparation within my power. Will you accept it, 
poor little Doris ?” 

She looked up at him wistfully. 

“ Do you really want me to marry you ?” she 
asked, shyly and wonderingly. 

“I suppose that would be the only proper thing,” 
he remarked, hopelessly. 

“ But do people' ever marry each other who have 
only been acquainted such a short while as we have 
been — not quite a week ?” 

“Sometimes,” he answered, abstractedly. 

“ How strange it is that you should really want 
to marry me," she mused. “ I don’t see what for. 
But, really, I don’t mind if — if you want me so very 
much.” 

Want her ! He could have laughed aloud at the 
very idea. He did not want her. He was forced, as it 
were, into making her his wife. He could have 
cursed his folly, as he stood there, that had led him 
into the fatal error that had persuaded her into 
going to that ball. 

He aroused himself from his bitter thoughts by a 
great effort. 

“•It may as well be now, Doris,” he said, with 


36 


Parted at the Altar. 


reckless despair. “ No doubt we can find somebody 
to perform the ceremony at once.” 

She was romantic and impressible. Ah ! how nice 
it would be to have a handsome young husband like 
Frederick Thornton to love and protect her. There 
would be no bitter scoldings and harsh, grim 
Madame Delmar ; no more heartaches because she 
was alone in the great, cold world. She had led 
such a lonely life ; her poor heart had always 
craved love so much. 

She never forgot that ride through the sweet, 
pink clover to the stone church that stood on the 
cliff overlooking the glittering Chesapeake. How 
the night-birds twittered, and the crickets chirped, 
and the fireflies twinkled like earth-stars in the green 
grass by the roadside. 

She had a dim recollection of the few moments 
that were spent in the old rector’s parlor, and of how 
the rector’s daughter had loaned her her own wed- 
ding veil to wear, and of Frederick leading her up 
the dim aisle of the church — up to the altar — his 
face grave almost to sternness, and pale as death. 

Oh ! how weird it all seemed to Doris. Then, as 
if in a dream, she stood quite still by his side while 
the fatal ceremony went on. She heard the questions 
and responses, and answered the questions put to 


Marrying in Haste . 


37 


her ; and the white-haired minister pronounced her 
his lawful wedded wife. 

The bridegroom bent down his handsome head to 
kiss his bride ; he knew it was customary, it was 
expected of him. Doris drew back with a startled 
cry, for his lips were as cold as ice. 

Poor little bride ! It was done. In a moment she 
had sown the seeds from which was to spring up a 
harvest of woe so terrible that her wildest imagina- 
tion could never have painted it. 

“ Are you glad to have married me, Mr. Freder- 
ick ?” she whispered, timidly, as they turned from 
the dim old altar towards the vestry to sign the 
register. 

“ Glad !” he groaned, under his breath. 

But low as the words were muttered, her strained 
ear caught them, and every word shocked her, and 
stabbed her heart like the thrust of a dagger. 

“ Glad ! You have wrecked my life. You have 
parted me forever from Vivian, whom I loved so 
madly. I have given you my name. I will care for 
you, because in the eyes of the world you are my 
wife ; but here at the altar we part. I pray Heaven 
I may never look on your face again.” 

She did not faint. She did not cry out, or utter 
any moan. 


38 


Parted at the Altar. 


All in a moment her young heart seemed turned 
to stone. 

When the names were all signed in the register, 
Doris turned piteously to her bridegroom : 

“ I have one prayer to make," she said. “ All — 
even you, Frederick — leave me alone in the vestry for 
a brief half hour. Do not refuse me. You will come 
here alone to me then, Frederick, my husband.” 

It was a strange, unheard-of request. He bowed 
wonderingly, and left her, and the door closed after 
him, shutting him out from her view. 

“ He married me and he does not love me !” she 
moaned, wildly, as she sank down shivering on her 
knees. “ I have wrecked his life, for I have parted 
him from Vivian. That is what he said. Oh, I 
heard it. But it is not too late to repair what I 
have done,” she panted, as the low dash of the 
waves caught her ear. “ I can set him free at the 
very altar. I can, and I will. If I have to part from 
him, I had better die.” 

And this brings us back, dear reader, to the pitiful 
scene that opens this story. 



CHAPTER JV. 

REPENTING AT LEISURE. 

The clock in the church tower struck the mid- 
night hour in slow, measured strokes, and Doris 
struggled up from her knees with a wild, panting 
cry, sobbing out: 

“ When he returns he must not find me here.” 

Then in her bridal robes, without one backward 
glance, she stole from the vestry out into the cold, 
moonlit night. 

The terrible revelation, as they turned away from 
the very altar, that her bridegroom had not married 
her for love, had almost turned poor Doris’s brain ; 
and her one mad thought was to set him free again, 
by seeking rest in the dark, cold water, and end it 
all. 

Hurrying down the path, without one glance 
behind at the dimly-lighted old church, and the 
coach with the restless white horses standing before 
its door, she reached the brink of the bay, tipped by 
the golden, arrowy light of the stars. The tide was 

[ 39 ] 


40 


Parted at the Altar . 


coming in. The water was rising higher and higher 
each moment, with the wavering moon-tratk across 
it. It would soon reach the rock where she stood, 
and sweep her away. 

“ No one cares what becomes of me,” sobbed 
Doris, piteously. “ What have I done that I should 
be so miserable and friendless? Life would have 
been so different if Frederick could only have loved 
me. Oh, it is so cruel, cruel ! Heaven forgive me !” 
she cried. “ I am so lonely, so desolate !” 

“ Doris !” 

The sound of her own name startled her so she 
would have fallen backward from the rock on 
which she was standing, down into the seething 
water below, if a strong arm had not been put out 
hurriedly and caught her ; and, turning her white, 
terrified face, Doris found herself confronted by 
Frederick Thornton. 

“Doris!” he repeated, in amazement, “what are 
you doing here? You requested me to leave you 
half an hour by yourself in the vestry. I came 
down to the bay to while away the time. How is 
it I find you here ?” 

As he spoke he looked keenly, curiously into the 
fair, young face, which was flushing and paling so 
piteously. 

He was quick to notice the great change in her — 


Repenting at Leisure . 


4i 


how she shrank from his outstretched hand, and how 
her eyes drooped before his steady gaze. 

In a flash it occurred to Doris that he had not 
been to the vestry, and he had not read the note she 
had left there addressed to him. So he did not know 
what had brought her to the dark, restless waters 
of the bay ; and, standing face to face with him, she 
could not tell him. 

“ This is the height of imprudence, little Doris,” 
he said, taking her hand, and drawing it through 
his arm. “Surely, Doris, you do not repent our 
hasty marriage, do you ?” he asked suddenly ; and 
he was greatly troubled and dismayed to see her 
nod her curly head and burst into tears. 

“ What is done cannot be undone, Doris,” he said, 
gravely. “ There is nothing for it now but to make 
the best of it. I will tell you my plans for the future 
when we get into the coach. Put on your wraps 
quickly. We must catch the 1:20 train, and we have 
quite a long ride before us.” 

He had spoken so gently, so kindly to her, a great, 
throbbing hope suddenly sprang to life in Doris’s 
heart. He had married her without love ; but per- 
haps, in the time to come, she might win that love, if 
she did not part from him at the very altar. 

Shtf had written that fatal letter on the impulse ot 


42 


Parted at the Altar. 


the moment, and now, on the impulse of the 
moment, she hurried to the vestry again, caught 
it up and destroyed it. 

Five minutes later they were in the coach, whirl- 
ing rapidly away to catch the Baltimore express. 
Doris stole many a shy glance at the stern, pale, 
handsome face beside her by the light of the car- 
riage lamp. 

Evidently he had forgotten that he said he had 
much to say to her, for they reached the depot 
without his having spoken a word. 

Doris watched the handsome face with wistful 
eyes, too timid to break in upon his thoughts. 

They took their places in the palace coach, but the 
train had gone some little distance before Frederick 
Thornton turned tq Doris, or even seemed to 
remember her presence. 

“ I never remember to have found time pass so 
slowly in my life,” he said, impatiently. 

There was no answer, and he turned quickly 
toward his little bride, wondering at her silence, her 
gravity. Her face was quite pale ; her lips were 
white and pressed firmly together; and there were 
tears shining on the long, curling lashes. In her 
heart was a sense of desolation words cannot 
describe. When the train stopped at different stations 
people wondered at the beautiful, white, girlish face, 


Repenting at Leisure. 


43 


so young, so lovely, and yet so sad, that looked 
from the window so wistfully. 

Like all young girls, Doris had had rosy day- 
dreams of what her wedding-day would be like, 
and of the lover who would clasp her in his arms 
when they left the altar, murmuring : “ My dar- 

ling, my own now, my wife." Ah, how different 
was the reality — terribly different! 

She looked at Frederick Thornton sitting beside 
her so cold, haughty and stern. Ah, how handsome 
he was; how strange it seemed to her that this 
handsome man was — her husband ; her husband 
who had married her within the hour, yet whose 
heart was as far from her as the earth from the sky. 
Her lips quivered, her eyes grew dim with tears ; 
the sadness, the pathos of that face, might have 
touched a heart of stone. He either did not or 
would not see it. He was looking impatiently past 
her — out of the window. The impulse was strong 
to turn to him and sob out : 

“ My husband, love me a little ; I am young, I am 
lonely and desolate ; love me a little. Hold my 
hands in yours ; we are going out in the great, cruel 
world that I have always dreaded so much. Say 
something to comfort me." 

Then she hesitated. What if he should look at 
her contemptuously or turn haughtily away ? No, 


44 


Parted at the Altar. 


she must not speak to him ; she must not sue for the 
affection withheld from her ; she had pride enough 
for that. 

“ You do not ask where we are going, Doris,” he 
said at last. “ Have you no curiosity to know ?” 

“ I have been waiting for you to tell me,” she 
answered, simply. 

“ I intend taking you to my home, where my 
mother and sisters are, but you could not go — like 
that. We will stop over in Baltimore long enough 
to purchase a suitable wardrobe for you.” 

He never forgot the startled eyes she raised to 
his face, eyes shining with tears. 

“ Home — where your mother and your sisters 
are !” she repeated in alarm. 

“ Why not, Doris ?” he asked. “ You do not seem 
to favor the idea.” 

“ They would not like me ; they would hate me !” 
she cried, vehemently. “ They would see at once 
that I have not been used to anything, and that you 
are far, oh, so far above me. I should be awkward 
and ill at ease before them ; I should not know 
what to do, what to say, or how to say it. I, who 
have been a poor, little, dependent nobody all my 
life, know nothing of your world and its ways, and 
you would be ashamed of me. You would repent 


Repenting at Leisiire. 


45 


marrying me, and I should die,” she moaned, under 
her breath. 

“ My mother and sisters are by no means formid- 
able persons,” he said, frowning slightly. “They 
are well-bred, a trifle haughty perhaps (all save one 
of them), dainty and refined. They are ladies whom 
it will be a pleasure for you to meet.” 

“Tell me more of them,” said Doris, faintly, her 
courage sinking lower and lower at every word he 
uttered. Oh! how she dreaded to meet his rela- 
tives ! 

“I will begin with my mother,” he said, “ and 
sketch really faithful portraits for you: She has 
more pride and dignity, we think, than any other 
member of the family. She is tall and stately ; her 
eyes are clear, cold and gray. She is the very em- 
bodiment of the term, a well-bred, haughty lady.” 

u And your sisters — are they like your mother?” 
faltered Doris, still more faintly. 

“ I have three sisters,” he responded. “ Isabel, 
the eldest, is very like mother in face and manner ; 
Gwendolin is called the blonde beauty of the fam- 
ily, and Beatrix, or Trixy, as we always call her — 
well, I can hardly find words to tell you what she 
is like. She is, I must confess, a great cross to my 
dignified mother. She is sixteen, and the romp, 
the tomboy, the mischievous sprite of the family. 


4 6 


Parted at the Altar. 


She has very expressive eyes, brown and sparkling, 
but she can never be what is called good-looking, 
for her hair is positively red. My father is a stately 
gentleman, bound up in his business cares. What I 
am you can see for yourself. I think I have given 
you a fair picture of the inmates of Thornton Villa, 
as our home is called.'’ 

As Doris listened the presentiment grew stronger 
and stronger that every one in this stately home 
would be antagonistic to herself. 

“ And your mother being what she is, so haughty 
and'proud, wished you to marry some one like her- 
self, no doubt,” said Doris, in a low voice. 

‘‘Yes,” replied Frederick Thornton, huskily. 
“ My mother wished me to marry Vivian Court- 
ney,” and^he uttered a deep sigh. 

Doris crept closer to him, looking breathlessly 
up into his face with her great, blue, shining eyes. 

“ Tell me — if it had not been for me — for taking 
me to the fatal ball, which ended so fatefully — tell 
me, would you have married Vivian ?” 

He was too honorable and straightforward to 
deceive her. He bowed his head. 

“ It would have been so, Doris,” he answered, 
huskily. 

“ You loved her so well,” she whispered below 


Repenting at Leistire . 


47 


her breath, her face growing paler and paler ; but 
he did not notice that. 

“ Yes/’ he replied, but added, hastily : “ why talk 
of that now ? It is all over between Vivian and me.” 

" I have come between you and the girl you 
loved,” breathed Doris. 

“ Let me forget it if I can,” he cried out sharply. 
“ Don’t torture me by reminding me of what might 
have been.” 

Then he relapsed into silence again, and his face, 
half averted from her, grew sterner, colder and 
prouder than ever. He did not notice how wistful 
was the fair young face turned to him. He was ill 
at ease; he had found the wedding journey de- 
cidedly irksome ; he longed to be away from her ; 
and thus two hours dragged wearily by, and the 
palace coach, with its ill-mated bride and groom, 
whirled on through the darkness. 

She clinched her little hand ; she tried to still the 
beating of her heart. He was solicitous for her com- 
fort, he was attentive to her wants, but she noticed 
after that allusion which awakened his remem- 
brance of Vivian, his lost love, that he spoke to her 
only when civility dictated that he should speak ; 
and when he did address her he never looked at 
her. 

From her heart she longed to be back with 


48 


Parted at the Altar. 


Madame Delmar again. Ah ! was ever a bride so 
lonely before ? Did any young girl ever meet such 
a strange fate as this ? Sitting there by her young 
husband’s side, so cruelly, bitterly unhappy, on her 
wedding journey, the words of an old poem came 
to her, filling her eyes with tears : 

“ Like some divided river, 

Your ways and mine will be, 

To drift apart forever — 

Forever till the sea.” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE DESERTED BRIDE. 

When they reached Baltimore they drove straight 
to the hotel, and then, for the first time, it seemed 
to Doris, her husband spoke kindly to her. He 
said : 

“You look very tired. I should advise you to 
get some rest. I always find a cigar and the morn- 
ing air most refreshing after a journey. We stay 
here a week,” he went on, as he placed a roll of bills 
in her hand. “That will give you plenty of time 
to make your necessary purchases.” 

Doris looked at him the picture of dismay, but 


The Deserted Bride . 49 

she did not tell him she did not have the faintest 
notion as to what was appropriate to buy. 

“ Do you wish me to accompany you on this shop- 
ping expedition?” he asked. “To tell you the 
truth, it always bores me. I have ordered the coupe 
at two, to-morrow afternoon.” 

“ I can go alone,” answered Doris, bravely. “And 
I will buy what I think will please you.” 

He smiled, gratified at her ready complaisance. 
Half an hour later she stood alone in her pretty 
blue-and-gold boudoir attached to the suite of rooms 
that had been assigned them. 

Too restless to sleep, Doris passed the long hours 
which followed sitting at the window, gazingat the 
throng of pedestrians that passed to and fro across 
the way. 

The afternoon commenced to wane, the sun set, 
and darkness enfolded the city. Still Doris sat by 
the window, patiently watching for Frederick 
Thornton’s return. How little she dreamed of the 
suns that would rise and set ere she looked upon 
his face again ! 

Soon after a servant announced six o’clock dinner. 

“ I shall not go down until my husband comes,” 
said Doris, timidly. “ He must be here shortly.” 

The long evening wore away; eleven o’clock 
sounded from an adjacent belfry ; and weary with 


50 


Parted at the Altar. 


long watching, Doris’ curly head drooped slowly, 
and, sitting in her chair by the window, she fell into 
a troubled sleep. 

The sun was shining into the room when Doris 
opened her eyes the next morning. For an instant 
she gazed around her with a startled cry of dismay. 
Where was she ? Then, like a flash, the strange 
events of the last few hours recurred to her. 

The poor little bride gazed around her with a chill 
feeling of loneliness. Where was her handsome 
young husband ? Why did he neglect her so cruelly ? 
she wondered, vaguely. 

Another forenoon dragged its slow length by. 
Still Frederick Thornton seemed to ignore her 
presence completely. 

Doris was glad when the coup6 he had ordered 
came for her. She was not used to shopping, yet 
it was marvelous to see the good taste she showed 
in the selection of a handsome, stylish traveling 
dress and one or two other costumes. 

They were ordered to the hotel at once, and 
counting out the contents of her purse, Doris found 
she had a little over twenty dollars left. 

Arriving at the hotel again, Doris proceeded at 
once to array herself in one of her prettiest cos- 
tumes, that she might look more pleasing in the 


The Deserted Bride. 


5i 


eyes of her handsome young husband when he 
should return. 

It was a beautiful vision of girlish loveliness the 
long French mirror reflected — a slender, graceful 
little creature, in bronze surah silk, from which the 
white throat and delicate head rose like a flower ; 
but, ah ! it was such a very wistful face the golden 
curls framed, and the pansy-blue eyes were heavy 
with unshed tears. 

“ Ah, will he never, never come ?” she cried out in 
vague terror, clutching her little hands over her 
heart, and pacing restlessly up and down the floor. 

A dozen times she had stretched her hand out 
towards the bell rope. She must send some one in 
search of him. Perhaps that was what he was 
waiting for. 

Poor, innocent little Doris! She knew so little of 
life and the great, cruel world. 

In answer to her summons and to her query, “If 
he would be so kind as to find her husband, Mr. 
Thornton, and tell him she wished to see him ?” the 
man gazed with undisguised pity into her sweet, 
young face. 

“ The gentleman who brought you here is not 
stopping here, ma’am,” he said, constrainedly. “ He 
left that same morning, after depositing for a week’s 
board, as that is our rule when there’s no baggage.” 


52 


Parted at the Altar . 


“ He left the hotel — the day — we — came ? Left me 
— alone — here ?” gasped Doris, in an agony of dis- 
may words are weak to describe. “ Surely you are 
jesting. He would not, he could not be so cruel. 
We were only married two days ago.” 

“ Are you strong enough to bear a great shock ?” 
asked the man, almost hating himself for the words 
he was about to speak. 

Once before in his varied experience of hotel life 
he had been obliged to speak the same words to a 
fair young wife, and, without a moan, without a cry, 
she had thrown up her white hands and fallen dead 
at his feet. 

Doris rose slowly to her feet, and stood before 
him with cheeks pale as a snowdrop and eyes wildly 
dilated. 

“You — you have something to tell me!” she 
gasped. “ In the name of mercy, I implore you to 
speak quickly. A shock, you say ? I — I can bear it.” 

“ A woman could break this more gently to her,” 
muttered the man, drawing his sleeve across his 
eyes. 

“Oh, why don’t you speak?” implored Doris. 
“ Is there anything the matter with my — my — hus- 
band ?” 

“ I hope what you say is true — that that soft- 
spoken, fine gentleman married you, poor lass. But, 


The Deserted Bride . 


53 


be that as it may, the truth, if you must have it, is : 
He has deserted you.” 

“Ah, I knew it would be so!” she exclaimed, in 
alarm. 

With a wild, bitter, agonizing cry, Doris fell, face 
downward, upon the floor like one dead. 

Deserted ! A deserted bride ! Those were the 
words that broke a human heart. 

We must hasten to explain, dear reader, the 
strange stroke of fate which tore these two asunder. 
Arrest your judgment of our handsome hero until 
you have heard his defence. 

True, he did not love this young bride whom he 
had been fairly forced by an unkind fate into wed- 
ding, and he left the hotel crying out silently to 
himself that she had wrecked his life, and made the 
thought of the future as bitter as death ; still, for all 
that, it would never have occurred to him to desert 
her. He was too honorable to even contemplate 
such an action. 

Deeply engrossed in his own thoughts, he walked 
rapidly down the crowded thoroughfare, paying 
little heed to what was transpiring around him. 
Suddenly he heard a great shout, a great cry from 
the people about him. 

He had barely time to raise his head, and in an 
instant he comprehended ; but he was too late to 


54 


Parted at the Altar. 


save himself. A horse, dashing over the crossing, 
had taken fright at a painted balloon in the hand of 
a little child. In a flash the driver was hurled from 
his seat ; the maddened animal wheeled about with 
one wild plunge, and ere Frederick Thornton could 
take one backward step a great iron hoof was 
planted just above his temple. 

More dead than alive he was taken to the nearest 
hospital. He had sustained a terrible fracture of 
the skull, the consulting doctor found. His life 
hung by a single thread. If he lived, his reason 
might be partially restored — never wholly, unless 
by a violent shock which might cost him his life, 
and it might be many a long day before he would 
waken to a realization of what was transpiring about 
him. 

As is often the case, this was one of the many 
accidents in which city life abounds, which never 
found its way into the daily papers. 

“ So young, so handsome and stalwart," said the 
hospital nurse, pityingly, as she bent over the pillow. 
“ I will kiss him for the mother whose pride he must 
be, and whose heart will be broken to see him like 
this — and for the sweetheart, too, who may be 
watching in vain for his coming." 

By a letter found in his pocket it was ascertained 
he was the son of Banker Thornton, of New York 


The Deserted Bride 


55 


City, and his father was accordingly communicated 
without delay. 

We will pass briefly over the fortnight of terrible 
suspense and anxiety which followed. Night and 
day his father watched by his bedside, refusing to 
be comforted. And when at last it was concluded 
that the son could be removed with safety the 
banker bowed his head, uttering a fervent “ Thank 
God !” 

Owing to Frederick’s strong constitution his con- 
valescence was more rapid than the doctors had 
anticipated ; but with returning consciousness it 
was discovered there was a strange blank in his 
mind. He could not remember how he happened 
to be in Baltimore, what had brought him there, or 
even the cause of the accident which befel him. 

He remembered quite well receiving Vivian 
Courtney’s pink tinted note which had called him 
that sunny afternoon to Beech Grove. He remem- 
bered alighting from the train, and had a dim recol- 
lection of inquiring the way to Madame Delmars’ 
seminary ; but beyond this — Heaven help him ! — he 
remembered nothing . 

The events that had followed in rapid succession 
— his meeting with beautiful Doris Brandon — the 
ball, and the fatal marriage which had resulted from 
it — were entirely obliterated from his mind. 


56 


Parted at the Altar. 


Alas! for the strange complications of a fate 
more cruel than death ! — the very existence of the fair 
young bride , who waited in vain for his coming, was 
swept entirely from his memory. 

There was great rejoicing at Thornton Villa 
when the banker and his son returned home. Mrs. 
Thornton and the young ladies embraced Frederick 
by turns. His mother held * him in her arms 
longest. 

“ There is some one else waiting to welcome you, 
dear,” she whispered, nodding toward the bay win- 
dow, heavily draped with silken curtains — “ some 
one who would not have cared to live if you had 
died.” 

“ Is it Vivian, mother ?” he asked, quickly, his 
handsome face flushing with pleasure. 

“ Yes,” she answered, with a smile ; and in another 
moment the impetuous young man had crossed the 
room and had flung back the heavy curtains. 

A slim, girlish figure bounded up from the velvet 
arm-chair, murmuring : 

“ Frederick! oh, Frederick !” 

“Vivian, my love! my darling!” he answered, 
extending his arms joyfully. 



CHAPTER VI. 

A FATAL BETROTHAL. 

“ Will you not welcome me, Vivian?” he ex- 
claimed, eagerly. “ One word from you will go 
nearer my heart than whole volumes of warmest 
greeting any one else could speak.” 

“ You know how glad I am to see you, Frederick,” 
she replied, in a low voice, disengaging herself from 
his clinging arms. “ My conscience smote me as I 
looked at you, and noted the paleness and great 
change in you ; for I realize that I am the cause of 
your accident. But for the foolish note I wrote you 
to come on and go to the ball you would never have 
taken that horrid trip to Beech Grove. I shall 
regret it all my life.” 

“ Think no more about it, Vivian,” he exclaimed, 
persistently detaining the little white hand in his 
clasp. “ The pleasure of being with you again, and 
to hear you say you have missed me, amply atones 
for it all.” 

“ How strange it is that you should have com- 
pletely lost all remembrance of what transpired 

[ 57 ] 


58 


Parted at the Altar. 


from the moment you stepped off the train at Beech 
Grove,” mused Vivian. “ I wonder if the note was 
delivered to you which I left with one of the girls.” 

“ I wish I could answer you, Vivian, but, alas ! 
I cannot. It is of slight consequence, however, now 
that it is past, and I am with you once again,” he 
answered, lightly. “ But, tell me, Vivian,” he went 
on in a lower tone, “ are you still of the same opin- 
ion that I must not ask your father for you yet? 
You are cruel to, me, Vivian ; how can I wait?” 

“What are we to do, Frederick?” she answered, 
raising her great, dark velvety eyes to his eager 
face. “ Both papa and mamma declare I am by far 
too young to give one thought to love or lovers.” 

“ You do not think so, Vivian ?” he asked, quickly. 

“ No,” she confessed, shyly, adding, laughingly : 
“ It is rather a difficult position — that of an only 
child. If my father and mother had live or six 
daughters, they would not think so much of me.” 

“ No wonder your parents look askance at your 
lovers, Vivian. No, they do not want to part with 
you. They treat our love for each other lightly, 
declaring you are only a child of seventeen, and that 
it is simply ridiculous asking the hand of a school- 
girl in marriage. Still I do not despair, Vivian. I 
am sure all will come out right in the end. When 
they see, despite all our trials and rebuffs, we 


A Fatal Betrothal. 


59 


are true and steadfast to each other, they must be 
touched — they must be pleased — and consent to give 
you to me. Heaven intended us for each other, 
Vivian ; have I not loved you all my life?” 

“ Yes,” she assented, eagerly, “ from childhood, 
Frederick.” 

“And I will love you, and only you, Vivian, until 
the day I die,” he whispered, covering the little 
white hand he held with passionate kisses. “ If I 
could not win you, life would never hold one hour’s 
happiness for me.” 

Further conversation was interrupted by the 
entrance of his sister, Trixy, and he had barely time 
to add : 

“ I am determined to plead my cause again with 
your parents — this very day, Vivian. Hope for me 
— pray for me.” 

“Ah, here you are, Fred!” cried a merry voice, 
roguish and piquant, yet sweet as a silver bell. “ I 
guessed that I should find you here, because this is 
Vivian’s retreat. Wherever she is, you are sure to 
be. We have long since dubbed you * Vivy’s 
shadow.’ ” 

And, long before the sentence was finished, two 
white arms were flung about his neck with such a 
hearty hug it almost took his breath away. 

“ Trixy !” exclaimed Mrs. Thornton, entering the 


6o 


Parted at the Altar . 


room just in time to overhear this remark, “ you 
must not tease your brother and Vivian !” 

“ Then he must not be holding Vivy’s hand and 
looking supremely ridiculous when I come upon 
them suddenly !” she cried, with a rollicking laugh 
and a saucy toss of her head, as she sprang through 
the low French window out on the rose-bordered 
terrace. 

“ You must not mind her, Vivian, dear,” said 
Gwendolin Thornton, hastily crossing the room. 
“ If she finds out that anything she says plagues you, 
the little torment will keep it up.” 

Vivian blushed. She did not look very unhappy 
over the matter, nor did her handsome stalwart com- 
panion. They had been bantered about each other 
ever since they were children, and were, as a conse- 
quence, quite used to it by this time. 

“ I want you both to come to the library and 
settle a very important decision,” continued Gwen- 
dolin. 

“ We intend to commemorate Frederick’s home- 
coming by some festivity. Balls are old ; lawn fetes 
not much better. Shall we have an archery party, 
a yachting party, a carnival, or charades on a platform 
built on the lawn, and dancing afterward ?” 

“ Let us have nothing with dancing connected 
with it,” interposed Frederick, quickly. “ I have 


A Fatal Betrothal 


61 


taken such a strong aversion to it. I£ cannot tell 
why.” 

“ Nonsense !” laughed Gwendolin. “ Any even- 
ing gathering loses half its charm if there’s no 
dancing. Why, it would be outrageously dull. 
No, no ! There must be dancing, at all events.” 

“Then I will leave you to arrange the matter 
between yourselves,” declared Frederick, turning 
away and sauntering out on the porch. 

Presently his mother joined him. 

“Do you notice how pale Vivian has grown?” 
she asked, keenly watching her son’s handsome, 
indolent face. “ Worrying over your illness did 
that, Frederick.” 

“ Dear little Vivian,” he murmured, gazing 
dreamily off toward the white sails skimming up 
and down the river. 

« The dream of my life would be realized if I 
could see you safely married to her, my boy, ’ his 
mother went on, gently. “ Forgive me, but I often 
entertain strange doubts and fears over your future. 
Falling in love with every pretty face that crosses 
your path seems to be your rock ahead, Frederick, 
and — ” 

“ Mother,” he interrupted, reproachfully, “ I can- 
not help being what you have often quaintly phrased 
it — a beauty worshiper ; but I could never care for 


62 


Parted at the Altar. 


any one as I care for Vivian. I mean to act upon 
your advice at once — marry Vivian as soon as l can 
gain her parents' consent." 

Mrs. Thornton’s face brightened. 

“ I was much afraid you had some other love- 
affair on hand," she said, in a low voice. “ You 
know you are heir to a million ; many people know 
that, and unscrupulous young women might set 
traps for you. You are romantic by nature, easily 
influenced and persuaded. I have always had a 
strange presentiment over your future. It will be 
the happiest day of my life when I see Vivian your 
bride." 

“ And that you shall see as soon as I can win her 
consent," he replied, gallantly, raising his hat. 

Long after his mother had left him, Frederick 
Thornton continued to pace slowly up and down 
the porch, thoughtfully blowing the rings of cigar 
smoke away from his handsome face. 

“ How strange it is ! Ever since my illness I have 
been haunted by some indefinable, vague sensation, 
as though there was something important on my 
mind, which has escaped my memory, and which I 
am ever vainly trying to recall," he muttered. 

He always attributed it to some vanished fancy 
during his illness, and at length he ceased troubling 


A Fatal Betrothal. 


63 


himself about this vague fancy, which was no doubt 
the idle coinage of a delirious brain. 

Ah, Heaven pity him ! How little he dreamed 
that it was the memory of his bride, from whom fate 
had parted him so strangely, that he was ever vainly 
endeavoring to recall. 

There was more than one difficulty in his wooing. 
A pretty, willful, defiant little beauty like Vivian 
was sure to have plenty of lovers. One of her 
admirers, more bold than the rest, openly declared 
himself the bitter rival of any man who should sue 
for lovely Vivian’s hand. Thus, for some time past, 
Frederick Thornton and Gerald Marston had been 
rivals — bitter foes; and when at length Vivian’s 
engagement to Frederick Thornton was announced, 
it was a terrible blow to at least one heart. 

Gerald Marston sat with the newspaper clutched 
tightly in his hands, gazing with a death-white face 
at the printed paragraph. Slowly and deliberately 
he read the closing lines through for the twentieth 
time : 

“ The marriage will take place on the tenth of 
September, at the residence of the bride’s parents.” 

Then he tore the paper into a thousand fragments, 
and set his heel upon them, while the bitterest 
laugh that was ever heard fell from his lips. 

“ If I had been the son of a millionaire, instead of 


6 4 


Parted at the Altar. 


a poor devil of an artist, old Colonel Courtney and 
his haughty wife would have looked upon me with 
more favor. They have persuaded Vivian into this. 
There was a time when I could have sworn she 
loved me best." 

His face grew haggard and stern, and the light 
died from his eyes. 

“ I have staked my life, my love, my hope, on a 
girl's heart, and I have lost," he cried, despairingly. 

He flung his brush from him, and the paintings 
that had been the dearest dreams of his ambition he 
dashed from him with a shaking hand. 

“ Good-bye, life, love and fame,” he muttered, 
catching his breath hard. 

“ If my darling is happy with Thornton, God 
knows I will try to bear up like a man. I cannot 
stay here to witness my rival’s triumph. I will go 
away. I will put the whole width of the world 
between us.” 

The next day Vivian Courtney received the fol- 
lowing letter : 

“ Dear Little Vivian— Dear to me still, although 
I have lost you — and with you vanish all the bright 
dreams of a happy future — I am going away. I 
leave the city to-day to be gone long years, perhaps 
forever. I shall never return until I can look calmly 
upon you as another man’s wife. If I can never do 


Driven Out into the World. 


65 


this, I will never return. Even though 1 do not, 
always remember this, Vivian — that one lives some- 
where in the great, wide world who would lay down 
his life for you. I shall seek forgetfulness on sandy 
deserts, on burning plains, in dark forests, on track- 
less seas. 

“You gave me a simple geranium at the garden 
gate one moonlit night. No doubt it was a 
thoughtless act, and one which, even in that moment, 
you forgot. But I — oh, Vivian ! — 1 have treasured 
that simple leaf as a miser treasures his gold. Count- 
less kisses and burning tears have fallen upon it, 
because once it rested in your dear hands. When I 
die, that geranium leaf will be found upon my heart. 
Good-bye, and God bless you, peerless Vivian. 

“ I leave for Baltimore on the noon train. Fare- 
well, my beautiful, whom I have lost. 

“ Yours in life and in death. 

“ Gerald.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

DRIVEN OUT INTO THE WORLD. 

When Doris opened her eyes she found herself 
lying upon her white couch and the kindly face of 
the old housekeeper bending over her. 

“Where am I? What is the matter?” she 
exclaimed, struggling up to a sitting posture and 


66 


Parted at the Altar . 


pushing back the heavy mass of golden curls from 
her face with her little white hand ; but in a flash 
memory returned to her, and she remembered all ; 
and a bitter cry echoed through the room as she fell 
back on her pillow, turning her face to the wall. 

“ My poor child, you must not take on like this,” 
said the housekeeper, pityingly. “ You will force 
yourself into brain fever.” 

“ I wish I could !” cried Doris, bitterly. “ Would 
to Heaven I could die and end it all. Oh, yes, yes, 
I wish I had fallen dead in my wedding clothes at 
his feet — at the altar.” 

“ My poor child,” said the housekeeper, soothingly, 
il that is a horrible prayer to fall from the lips of 
one so young. Be brave and strong ; look your 
trouble in the face calmly, and pray God for 
strength to bear it. You are not the first yojung 
wife who has been cruelly abandoned by the man 
she loved and trusted — the man who, at the altar, 
vowed to love, cherish and protect her while life 
lasted.” 

“ I loved him so !” moaned Doris. “ Oh, Heaven 
help me to bear it, or I must die. Where shall I 
turn, where shall I go ?” 

“ I would advise you to go back to your mother,” 
said the housekeeper. “ She could comfort you 
best.” 


Driven Out into the World. 


67 


“ 1 have no mother/' sobbed Doris. “ I am alone 
in the great, cruel world.” 

“ You must have friends,” said the housekeeper. 

Doris shook her golden head. 

“ Not one on earth,” she sobbed. 

The good housekeeper looked at the fair young 
girl in wonder. 

No friend ! — not one on the wide earth ! It was 
almost incredible. 

“ Are you sure the marriage you believe in so 
fully was a legal one?” asked Mrs. Lane, in per- 
plexity. “ A man who deserts a young girl deliber- 
ately in this fashion is capable of any villainy.” 

Doris raised her great, childish blue eyes to her 
face. 

“ I am sure it was legal,” she answered. “ I 
remember he was very particular that it should be 
so. Oh, how can I think he has willfully, deliber- 
ately deserted me ! Some day he will return here 
for me. I feel sure of it ; I feel it in my heart. I 
cannot live without him, any more than the flowers 
could live without the sunshine. Oh, he must 
return to me !” 

How the next day passed Doris could never 
remember. It seemed as though the torture of a 
lifetime was crowded into it. Then it suddenly 
dawned upon her she must leave the hotel. She 


68 


Parted at the Altar. 


could not remain there forever. There was but one 
place she knew of to go to, and that was — back to 
Madame Delmar’s seminary. 

Ah, what a desolate ride back it was to Beech 
Grove ! The train whirled past beautiful stretches 
of country, thrifty villages and peaceful homes, but 
Doris looked out of the windows without seeing. 
It was dusk when the train stopped at the station. 

For an hour or more a terrible storm had been 
raging, but Doris stepped from the train and made 
her way up the steep path, all unmindful of the 
bitter storm. 

Her wedding-ring fell from her finger in the long 
grass by the wayside, but she did not heed its loss. 

Stealing in through the great arched gate-way, 
she made her way around to the western wing of 
the building. This had been set apart for Madame 
Delmar’s use during vacation. 

The crimson hangings were looped back, and a 
bright flood of light shone out through the darkness 
like a beacon light. Noiselessly Doris approached 
the window and peered into the room. Ah, what 
a contrast to the cheerfulness within was the driv- 
ing, pitiless storm without. Drawing the rose vines 
aside, Doris pressed her white face still closer to 
the pane. 

At the table, engaged on some trifling fancy work, 


Driven Out into the World. 


69 


sat Madame Delmar, and near her stood her brother 
John, a plain, sturdy farmer, whom madame was 
always particular to ignore in public. 

John’s farm adjoined the seminary grounds on the 
left, and the awkward bachelor brother made his 
home in the western wing of the seminary ; but few 
of madame’s dainty, aristocratic pupils ever knew 
this, or even dreamed of the existence of such a 
person. 

On this particular evening madame and her 
brother John were discussing Doris’s sudden dis- 
appearance of a few days before. Ah, how plainly 
every word was heard by the little figure crouching 
out there in the pitiful storm ! 

“ I always thought no good would come of Doris 
roaming round like a wild gypsy for hours at a 
time,” declared madame, stitching vigorously at 
her embroidery. “ And now she has run away at 
last. I have always said no good ever comes of 
taking in waifs left on one’s doorstep. She always 
wanted to play the fine lady. Doris Brandon was 
too romantic. Too much love-dreaming and. 
nonsense go with these pretty faces.” 

“ I can’t think where the child could possibly 
have gone, Cynthy,” interposed honest John, 
dejectedly. “ I always thought we were doing our 
clear duty by little Doris in providing her such a 


70 


Parted at the Altar . 


good home. I never dreamed she was unhappy here. 
1 miss the child so !” 

“ Don’t make an old fool of yourself, John Del- 
mar !” exclaimed his sister, energetically. (She 
never wasted any of the little elegancies of speech 
or grammar upon plain, honest John.) “ It was that 
miserable girl’s own fault if she was not happy 
here. She was always too fond of decking herself 
out in finery, to look nicer than my pupils, and they 
rich men’s daughters, every one of ’em. And as to 
missing her, the Lord knows I am glad to be rid of 
her!” she added with spiteful emphasis. 

A twig snapped beneath the window, and — was it 
only their fancy ? — a white face, framed in tangled, 
golden, wet hair, peered wistfully into the room 
from among the climbing red roses. A moment 
later a shadow crept across the threshold, and a 
voice, faltering piteously, sobbed out brokenly : 

“ Oh, madame ! 1 have come back to you ! Oh, 

pity and forgive ! If you scold me I shall fall down 
and die at your feet !” 

“ It’s Doris’s spirit !” gasped madame, in terror. 
“ Look at that tangled hair and white, horrible 
face !” 

“ I am no spirit, madame !” sobbed Doris, advanc- 
ing toward the centre of the room, near where the 


Driven Out into the World. 


7i 


horror-stricken woman stood. 44 I’m your unhappy 
ward, Doris !” 

“ So you are really Doris in the flesh !” retorted 
the irate raadame, her rising anger taking the place 
of her momentary fright. 44 Where have you been 
for the last two days ? I want to know where you 
have been, I say. Your dress is bedraggled with 
mud. We would be disgraced for life if any one 
hereabouts saw you. I ask you again, Doris Bran- 
don, what’s the meaning of all this ?” 

“ I — I cannot tell you, madame !” sighed Doris, 
bitterly. “ Only be kind to me and forget that I 
ever went away.” 

“ Do you hear that miserable girl ? Do you hear 
her, John ?” cried madame, furiously exasperated. 
41 This is the creature you would waste your pity 
on ! She slips off in the night, Heaven only knows 
where, and I dragging the bay and scouring the 
whole country for her ; and now, after two days, 
she comes coolly back, and asks me to forget the 
disgrace she has brought on us, and, most of all, 
insults us by telling us not to ask where she has 
been. I never struck the girl in my life yet, but I 
declare I can scarcely restrain myself from beating 
the truth out of her. I shall investigate this matter 
thoroughly ; depend upon that, ungrateful girl.” 

44 You may kill me, if you choose, madame,” 


72 


Parted at the Altar . 


sighed poor Doris, with a gasping, tearless sob, as 
she sank down on the floor in a little, dark heap, 
“ but I will not — oh, I cannot reveal to you the 
dark secret of the past two days.” 

“ Is there a lover at the bottom of it ?” cried 
madame, shrilly, fairly shrieking the words in the 
girl’s startled ear. “ Answer me ! Has love any- 
thing to do with this disgraceful affair ?” 

“ No. No one loves me,” muttered Doris, faintly. 
“My poor heart is bruised so sorely. Oh, no, no; 
God never intended any one to love me !” she added, 
wearily. 

“ You cannot deceive me. There’s a lover at the 
bottom of it,” declared madame, suspiciously. “ It’s 
just such pink and white baby faces as yours that 
make all the mischief in the world. You cannot 
remain under this roof till you make a clean breast 
of it.” 

The beautiful, young golden head was bent low 
before her. 

Doris turned her great blue eyes piteously to 
honest John Delmar, who stood by, regarding the 
r cene in dazed, dumbfounded helplessness. 

“ Forgive me, oh, won’t you, please, and take me 
>ack !” sobbed Doris, distractedly, holding out her 
little white hands toward him. “ You have been kind 
to me all my life. Don’t desert me now, for I have 


Driven Out into the World. 


73 


no one but you to look to. If you turn from me I 
shall surely die.” 

“ It would be the best thing you could do,” 
returned madame, curtly. “ You may as well go 
back where you have been for the past two days if 
you persist in refusing to confide in me.” 

“ Do be merciful and forgive me,” cried the poor, 
tortured child. “ I have nowhere to go, madame. 
God has shut me entirely out from His mercy, and 
forgotten me, too 1” 

“Well, that’s just what I intend to do,” cried 
madame, heartlessly and mercilessly, fiercely grasp- 
ing Doris by the shoulder, and forcing her to her 
feet. “ I want you to leave this house the same way 
you came. Go where you’ve been the past two 
days,” she repeated, tauntingly ; “ and if you have 
one spark of decency or pride left, you will keep 
out of the neighbors’ sight, or there will be worse 
stories afloat than there are now. For the last time 
I say, clear this mystery up straightway, or go.” 

“ Oh, how can I tell her? How dare I tell her,” 
thought Doris, wildly, “ that 1 am a victim to love’s 
cruel curse — that he whom I wedded and trusted 
so blindly, deceived me more cruelly than death ; 
cast me adrift on the great ocean of life, without 
the least pity for my youth, my innocent, broken 
heart, or my blasted hopes ! 


74 


Parted at the Altar . 


“ Surely, you don’t mean to drive me from the 
shelter of your roof out into the bitter storm, 
madame ?” gasped Doris. “Surely, you cannot 
mean it,” she cried, a death-like chill creeping over 
her. 

“ I do mean it!” cried madame, sharply. “ Go — 
without delay !” 

“ Now, Cynthy, sister, don’t be too hard upon 
poor little Doris,” interposed John Delmar, in an 
unsteady voice. “ You’ve gone far enough. You 
must remember, Cynthy, little Doris is only a 
young, thoughtless child. I do not believe she’s 
done anything wrong. Have you, child ?” he asked, 
with intense earnestness. 

Doris tried to answer, but the words died away 
on her white lips, making no sound ; and she gazed 
at him with a world of pitiful entreaty in her 
childish, blue eyes, like a hunted deer suddenly 
brought to bay. 

“There!” cried madame, shrilly and triumph- 
antly. “ Don’t you see she dare not deny it ? I say 
again, you waste your pity.” 

John Delmar, poor Doris’s only friend, turned 
away, sick at heart, and abruptly left the room, to 
hide the great tears that were welling down his 
honest face. 


I 



CHAPTER VIII. 

OUT IN THE DARKNESS. 

With a bitter cry, Doris sank on her knees at 
madame’s feet, her beautiful, tangled, golden hair 
falling in reckless abandon about her like a golden 
veil, her lovely young face white with fear. 

Poor child! She might have known better by 
past experience than to appeal to John Delmar, 
when his sister “ laid down the law,” as she called 
it. 

“ It is night now, madame. You will at least let 
me stay under the shelter of your roof until morn- 
ing. Listen to the terrific storm, hear how it thun- 
ders, and see the blinding lightning. Oh, madame, 
I am so afraid of the darkness and the terrible 
storm. In the morning I will go quietly away, and 
you shall never look upon my face again ; and I 
shall always remember that you did not drive me 
out into the fury of the bitter night.” 

Madame’s cutting, sarcastic laugh answered her. 

“ Afraid of the storm and the darkness 1” she 

[ 75 ] 



7 6 


Parted at the Altar 


sneered, maliciously. “You were not afraid to 
steal out of the house at night, and remain out of it 
for two consecutive nights. You did not care 
whether you disgraced me or not.” 

“ I never meant to disgrace you,” sighed Doris, 
humbly. 

“Depend upon it, you shall not have the oppor- 
tunity of disgracing me any more,” replied Madame 
Delmar, grimly. “ Go !” she cried, pointing to the 
door, “ And never let me look upon that pink-and- 
white baby face of yours again. If you persist in stay- 
ing around here, 1 shall have you arrested, and then 
you will be forced by the law to clear up this mys- 
tery. The secret as to where you have been will 
be wrung from your lips, whether you are willing 
or no.” 

Madame Delmar never forgot the wild startled 
cry that broke from Doris’s lips. 

“ Madame,” she sobbed, struggling up from her 
knees, and turning to the woman who had shown 
her so little mercy in the hour of her bitterest need, 
“you have not been kind. You have driven me 
forth into the cold, bitter world to live or to die as 
God sees fit; but I forgive you. Some day you 
may regret this action. When any one mentions 
the name of Doris, the unhappy waif fate thrust 
upon your hands, and who has been unwittingly 


Out in the Darkness. 


77 


such a cross to you, it is my prayer that you will 
always try to think of me kindly and at my best.” 

Without another word, Doris turned and fled out 
into the darkness of the night. In the distance she 
could hear the plaintive murmur of the waves as 
they beat drearily against the shore. 

“ I wish I had flung myself into the dark water 
when I intended to, that night, when those fatal 
words bound me to him — his wedded wife. 

“ His wife ! Oh, dear Heaven !” she cried, 
bitterly, struggling on through the terrible storm 
and the darkness. “ May God forgive him for the 
falsehood that stained his lips !” 

She flung herself down in all the storm, and hid 
her white, despairing face in the long, daisy-studded 
grass, weeping for the overthrow of her hope and her 
love, and the desolate young life that lay in ruins 
around her, as she had never wept before. 

The rain, like angel’s tears, fell pityingly down 
upon that golden head buried among the silent 
daisies; but Doris did not even heed it. 

She stretched out her white hands through the 
darkness, crying out to her lost love. Life was too 
hard to bear without him. 

But such a passionate burst of grief is the soonest 
over. She did not cry out for Heaven to wreak its 
vengeance on this handsome young husband, who 


78 


Parted at the Altar. 


had deserted her at the altar, as it were, as many 
another might have done. 

“ I will learn to forget him,” she cried, raising her 
white face to the dark sky. “ I will cast him out of 
my poor, shattered heart, as he cast me out of his, 
without one regret. Oh, the madness, the folly of 
trusting too blindly to love*!” 

Was it fancy, or did some one call her name? 
Doris raised her head from the long, wet, daisy- 
studded grass and listened. 

Was some one calling her name, or was it only 
the wind sighing among the branches of the trees 
overhead, or perhaps some night bird’s cry ? 

She sprang to her feet, listening intently. It was 
no delusion ; footsteps were hurriedly approaching, 
and she heard John Delmar’s voice calling : 

“ Doris — little Doris — are you here ?” 

“ I am here,” she answered ; and a moment more 
he was standing beside her. 

It had been all so sudden, so unexpected, the 
whole affair was over, and Doris was gone, before 
John Delmar fairly realized what had occurred. 

“ Come back, little Doris,” he cried, in a voice 
husky with emotion. “ I will be responsible to 
Cynthy. Thank God you are here, when it comes 
to that ! I have as much right on these premises 
as she has. She shall not turn you away.” 


Out in the Darkness. 


79 


Doris shrank back from his outstretched hand. 

“ I shall never enter your door, Mr. Delmar,” she 
sobbed, piteously — “ no, never again.” 

All his entreaties proved unavailing ; no induce- 
ment would prevail upon Doris to ! enter the house 
from whence she had been so rudely and cruelly 
repulsed. 

“ But what will you do, child ? Where will you 
go?” asked John Delmar, in the greatest perplexity. 

“ 1 don’t know,” sobbed Doris — “ unless you shall 
tell me some place.” 

“ What had come over pretty, defiant, willful 
little Doris ?” thought John, in sheer astonishment. 
“Was this crouching, timid little creature the 
romping, mischievous, dimpled face 6f pretty Doris, 
who but one short week ago had been the very sun- 
shine of the old seminary, despite madame’s cross- 
ness ?” 

“ Tell me where I can go, Mr. Delmar,” she 
pleaded. “ I cannot — oh ! I cannot remain here ! 
You have always been kind to me ; be kind to me 
now, and tell me where I can go.” 

“ Do you really mean it, child ?” he asked, slowly. 

“ Yes,” she sobbed. “ I want to go where no one 
who has ever known me can look upon my face.” 

A sudden thought flitted through John Delmar’s 
brain. 


8o 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ Perhaps, after all, it would be best for little 
Doris to go away somewhere until Cynthy’s wrath 
had time to cool,” he thought. 

“ If you are in earnest, and wish to go away for a 
spell, I think I can manage it,” he said, slowly. 

Doris seized his hand, covering it with passionate, 
grateful kisses. 

“There is a family in New York — the Granvilles 
— who would receive you into their household for a 
month or so, if I were to request it. Do you think 
you would like that? You are not used to the 
ways of city life, child. Mrs. Granville would be 
kind to you.” 

“ It does not matter much where I go ; one place 
is the same as another to me,” answered Doris, 
drearily. 

How little John Delmar thought, as he went back 
to the house and penned that fatal letter, that that 
one incident was the turning point of poor, hapless 
Doris’s eventful young life. He wrote it with a 
smile on his lips, little dreaming of the terrible con- 
sequences that would accrue from it. 

He took her down to the depot, and purchased 
her ticket. The train was just starting, and with a 
hasty “ Good-by,” little Doris drifted out of his life 
forever, and on to her fate. 

“ Have I done right in sending the child to New 


Out in the Darkness . 


81 


York?” he pondered, as he stood on the platform of 
the little station in the down-pouring rain and 
watched the train out of sight, as the bright light 
disappeared in the impenetrable darkness. “ New 
York is a great, cruel, wicked city. I almost wish 
I had sent Doris to some quiet little village here- 
abouts. Somehow I have a vague, troubled sensa- 
tion about it. I should have taken time to consider 
the matter well. I do not know that I have ever 
done anything like this on the impulse of the 
moment before. I hope Doris will write as soon as 
she reaches there.” 

Carefully placing John Delmar’s letter of intro- 
duction in her pocket, Doris leaned back in her seat, 
giving herself up to her own thoughts. Wedded 
and cruelly deserted in the space of one short week, 
was ever a young girl’s fate more pitiful ? And yet, 
for all this, Doris could not quite hate the handsome 
young husband she had met and married so roman- 
tically. 

The sun was high in the heavens when the train 
steamed into the Grand Central depot. The con- 
fusion, the stir, the rush of the great throngs of 
people confused Doris wonderfully. 

“ It is worse than Baltimore,” she thought, in 
alarm. 

“ Cab ! carriage ! hack !” cried a dozen voices, as 


82 


Parted at the Altar. 


many cabmen closed in around the timid, shrinking 
little figure, and Doris was almost thrust into the 
nearest vehicle. 

A short ride brought her to her destination, No. 
— West 32nd street. Timidly ascending the brown 
stone steps, Doris rang the bell, and a servant soon 
appeared in answer to the summons. 

“ If you please, I should like to see Mrs. Granville. 
I bring a letter from Mr. John Delmar, of Beech 
Grove. Tell her — ” 

“ Mrs. Granville!” repeated the man. '‘Why, 
that’s the name of the family that used to live here. 
They moved away — left the city over a year ago.” 

“ Gone !” echoed Doris, turning deadly pale. 
“ Gone ! did you say ?” 

“Yes,” replied the man, impatiently, “that’s what 
I said, Miss.” 

A deadly faintness seized Doris ; she stood in the 
marble vestibule dazed, bewildered by this terrible 
stroke of fate. Where was she to go ? What was 
she to do? She turned and walked down the steps 
clutching her little hands tightly over her heart. 

Alone, friendless, and with less than a dollar in 
her purse, in the streets of New York! Ah, what 
should she do ? That was the piteous prayer that 
fell from her white lips, as she moved on down the 
street. 


Out in the Darkness. 


83 


“New York!” she murmured, with a sudden 
start. “ It is here his parents live. How strange 
it is that I could have forgotten that, even for one 
moment.'’ Should she go to his mother — the cold, 
proud, haughty lady he had described, and tell her 
all? Oh, no, no — a thousand times No! She 
would rejoice that her son had left her ; she would 
find no pity, no mercy there. 

She had scarcely proceeded a dozen rods ere she 
saw a phaeton, drawn by two mettlesome ponies, 
rapidly approaching her. One fleeting glance at 
the young girl reclining among the cushions, and 
she recognized her at once. It was Vivian Court- 
ney, dashing, piquant, dazzling Vivian, in pink mull 
— her dark beauty enhanced by the crimson, lace- 
edged umbrella she carried, and the coquettish pink 
plumes which waved from her dainty straw hat 
that rested on her dark curls. 

Little Doris's glance lingered but a moment on 
Vivian’s proud face, then turned to the gentleman 
handling the reins. Every drop of blood seemed 
suddenly to leave her heart. The very air seemed 
to stifle her, and the light of the sun to grow dark 
around her ; the gentleman was Frederick Thorn- 
ton — her husband ! 

His dark, handsome face was bent eagerly 
toward his companion, with a rapt look of love and 


8 4 


Parted at the Altar. 


admiration in his passionate, eloquent eyes that 
made poor little Doris almost faint to witness it 
lavished upon another. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A FINE LOOKING COUPLE. 

Doris, almost fainting from excitement, stood 
fairly rooted to the pavement while the phaeton 
whirled past. 

A lady and gentleman walking directly in front 
of her turned and looked admiringly after the natty 
equipage and its handsome occupants. 

“ A remarkably fine-looking couple,” she heard 
the gentleman remark. And in answer to the 
lady’s question if he knew them he replied : “ There 
are very few New Yorkers who do not. She is the 
daughter of a wealthy gentleman who lives some- 
where in the suburbs. She’s only a school-girl 
as yet. Home just now on a vacation from boarding- 
school, I understand. Her companion is Banker 
Thornton’s son. I had it from his own lips yester- 
day that the rumor floating about is perfectly true. 
He is soon to marry Miss Courtney.” 

Without pausing to hear another word, Doris 


A Fine Looking Couple . 85 

turned like one who had been dealt a sudden death- 
blow, and fled precipitately down the street. There 
was a small park at the end of it, which she entered, 
and flinging herself down on one of the benches, 
sobbed as though her heart would break. Then 
she dashed the pearly tear-drops from her blue eyes, 
and laughed aloud, and the sound of that wild 
laughter startled her. 

“He is soon to marry Miss Courtney! That is 
what the gentleman said !” she cried, putting the 
shining hair back from her flushed, tear-stained 
face. “ For one little minute I almost believed it. 
It is utterly impossible, absurd ! Why, he could 
not marry her, for he is married to me. No one 
else could claim him. No one else has a right 
by his side.” 

She wondered if she should have called out to 
him. All her pride rose up and answered, “ No !” 

“ What do other wives do when their husbands 
forsake them ?” she muttered, below her breath. “ I 
have heard of such things, but I never quite believed 
a husband who took the trouble to marry a young 
girl would heartlessly, deliberately desert her. I 
never dreamed that would be my fate. I never 
thought what those wives did. Oh ! if I had a 
mother to go to — a sister to sympathize with me. 


86 


Parted at the Altar . 


It is more bitter than death to be all alone in the 
cold, cruel world.” 

Sitting there, listening to the falling, splashing 
water of the fountain, the thought occurred to her 
again as to what she should do — where she should 
go. She could not sit in the park much longer — 
already the policeman patroling the grounds was 
commencing to eye her sharply. She might walk 
through the crowded streets until night set in— but 
where could she go after that? She was quite too 
dazed to think. Slowly she arose and moved 
toward the entrance gate. 

For long hours Doris paced the streets of New 
York until the dusk began, to gather and the great 
electric lights were lighted. At length the strength 
of her limbs seemed to fail her; glancing up, she 
found herself standing before the entrance of the 
same park in which she had sat that morning. 

She tried to reach the bench by the fountain. 
She took one step within the enclosure ; then, with 
a little faint cry, she threw up her hands and fell, 
face downward, on the gravel walk in a dead faint. 

In a moment the same policeman who had 
watched her so furtively that morning hurried to 
her side. 

“ Poor child,” he muttered, “so young and so 
fair. I am sure she is a stranger in New York. It 


A Fine Looking Couple . 


87 


would be a deed of mercy to take her home with 
me and let Ellen attend to her.” And without 
further ado Doris was conveyed across the way to 
the patrolman’s humble home. 

When Doris opened her eyes she found herself 
lying on a chintz-covered settee, and a kind, 
motherly face bending over her, and the look of 
puzzled wonder deepened in Doris’s pansy blue 
eyes. 

“ You fainted, my dear, at the park gate, and my 
husband brought you here,” explained the little 
woman. “You have been here all night. Your 
friends will be greatly worried over you, I fear.” 

“Friends!” repeated Doris, drearily. “I have 
no friends here ; not one.” 

“Where are you stopping?” asked the patrolman’s 
wife, gently. 

“ I am a stranger in the city ; I just came here,” 
answered Doris. 

“ Did you come to New York to find work, poor 
child ?” asked the woman. 

Doris raised her eyes to the plain, kindly face. 

“ 1 — 1 have had a great trouble,” she said— “ so 
great that it has blotted everything else out of my 
mind. I quite forgot to think out the great problem 
of life — what I am to do.” 

“Poor child,” sighed the woman, “you have had 


88 


Parted at the Altar. 


a great trouble, and you so young. You can’t be 
much over seventeen, I’m sure.” 

“ Just a few months past,” said Doris, wearily. 

“ I have a daughter, my dear, so much like you, 
fair of face, with shining golden hair. She has 
married and gone away out West, far away from 
us, and you touch my heart because you are like 
her.” 

“ Married !” repeated Doris, bitterly. “ If you 
loved her why did you let her marry? — ” 

The patrolman’s wife laughed a cheerful little 
laugh. 

“ Why did she marry, my dear? Why, because 
she loved her husband. Heaven intended them for 
each other, or they would not have wed.” 

“ Does Heaven always intend the two who marry 
for each other?” asked Doris, breathlessly. 

“ To be sure, my dear,” replied the woman, won- 
dering at the question. 

“ But supposing, by any chance, people find out 
they have made a mistake in marriage — that they 
have married the wrong person — what do they do 
then ?” 

“ Do, my dear?” replied the good woman in won- 
der. “ How do you mean?” 

“ How do they remedy the mistake?” Doris 
asked. “ Do many men desert their wives?” 


8 9 


A Fine Looking Couple. 

“ Oh, dear, no,” was the quick reply. “ Once 
married, married forever. There is no help for 
such a mistake. If people are dissatisfied after 
marriage they rarely complain. They sensibly 
make the best of it.” 

Doris turned her white face to the wall. 

“ Oh, my God !” she thought, in the bitterness of 
her own thoughts, “ I cannot understand the prob- 
lem of my own life. If he meant to marry me, why 
did he desert me?” That was the burden of her 
passionate cry. 

Doris drank the cup of tea that was brought her, 
but she could take no food. 

“Iam sorry,” she said; “you are very kind to 
me, but I cannot eat. Let me thank you before I 

g°” 

“ Are you going out to try to find work, my 
dear?” asked the good woman, wistfully. 

“ Yes,” said Doris, bravely. 

“ Then I should advise you to buy a thick veil for 
yourself the first thing you did. I say it only in 
kindness. Beauty like yours is a dangerous and 
fatal gift often to a young girl. You will remem- 
ber my words when you are older. They will 
come back to you many a time through life. I 
would advise you to get a veil at-once to hide such 
a face as that from the gaze of men. A pretty face 


9 o 


Parted at the Altar. 


often brings misery when its owner is unprotected 
and innocent, as you appear lo be.” 

A few minutes later Doris was out on the crowded 
street again. 

At the first notion store she passed Doris went in 
to purchase a veil. A gentleman, tall, dark and 
handsome, stood at the counter, looking over an 
assortment of kid gloves. He glanced up as Doris 
entered, and the glove he held dropped to the show- 
case. 

“ What an exquisite face !” he muttered, glancing 
furtively at the lovely face, fair and dainty as a 
flower, crowned in its sheen of curling golden hair, 
the great, childish, pansy-blue eyes, and the lovely 
rosebud mouth. 

“ I would like to look at some veiling,” said Doris, 
timidly approaching the counter. 

“We do not keep veiling here,” responded the 
dapper young clerk, mentally wondering why 
young girls with such pretty faces could be induced 
to wear a veil at any price. “ You’ll probably get 
what you want at Kellogg & King’s.” 

“ 1 do not know where that is,” said Doris. “ I — 
1 — am a stranger. I have just come to New York.” 

As she spoke, as though attracted by a magnet, 
Doris glanced up, and encountered the fixed gaze 
of a pair of burning dark eyes. 


A Fine Looking Couple . 91 

Blushing crimson, she knew not why, Doris 
dropped the sweeping lashes over her eyes, turned 
hurriedly, and left the store. 

“No doubt she has come to New York to look 
for work,” said the clerk, turning to his other cus- 
tomer. “ It’s a sad pity young girls will come to 
this overcrowded city. It’s a shame to see such a 
pretty little creature adrift on the world.” 

Making some casual reply to the clerk, the gentle- 
manly-appearing, handsome young man walked out 
of the store, quickening his pace as he reached the 
pavement, hurrying after the retreating little figure 
up the street. 

Doris had purchased the veil, and only the long 
golden curls were visible and the prettiest dimpled 
chin imaginable. 

“ I must buy a paper and look it over,” thought 
Doris. 

And acting upon the thought, she bought a paper, 
and the first line that met her eye was the advertise- 
ment of an agency that furnished employment to 
women. 

Doris made her way there without delay. There 
was a lady superintendent in attendance, who looked 
curiously at the fair young face as Doris paid her fee. 

“Your name?” she said, posing the pen in her 
white fingers. 


9 2 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ Miss Thorne,” Doris replied. 

And it almost seemed to Doris other lips than her 
own must have framed that answer when she looked 
back at that memorable scene in the bitter, tragic 
after years which followed. 

She gave her age as seventeen, adding, earnestly, 
she should like to get a position as governess, if she 
could. 

“ That is very young,” returned the lady. “ A 
governess of seventeen stands but a slim chance. 
Of course you have good references ?” she added. 

“ No,” replied Doris, in a low voice. “ I am 
an utter stranger to the city.” 

The gentlemanly stranger had entered the agency, 
standing unobserved behind Doris while this con- 
versation was going on, and now he retreated to the 
door. 

“ No reference!” said the manageress, raising her 
eyebrows. “ Surely you must know some one who 
can vouch for 3^our respectability. Requiring a 
reference is customary,” she explained, seeing Doris 
draw back with wounded pride and blush to the 
roots of her lovely, golden hair. 

“ I can give none,” she answered, simply. 

“ Then I am obliged to return your fee and take 
your name from our books,” returned the lady. 


Prayer Answered. 


93 


And faint and dizzy, Doris walked out of the 
agency. 

As she reached the pavement, her eyes blinded 
by tears, some one touched her arm, and, glancing 
up, Doris found the dark-eyed stranger she had met 
in the notion store bowing low before her. 


CHAPTER X. 

PRAYER ANSWERED. 

Doris drew back with a little startled cry. The 
handsome, dark-eyed stranger she had first encoun. 
tered in the notion store was standing before her, 
bowing most profoundly, as she stepped out of the 
employment agency, discouraged and sick at heart. 

“ I beg your pardon, Miss,” he said, respectfully 
lifting his hat.“ I was standing in the doorway of the 
agency a moment since, and could not help hearing 
all that passed between the manageress and yourself. 
I am in search of some trustworthy young lady to 
fill a position recently and unexpectedly vacated. 
You are in search of a situation ; suppose you try 
the one I have to offer." 

Poor little Doris stood dumb and transfixed with 
joy before him. Surely God must have heard 
the prayer that had just gone up to heaven to 


94 


Parted at the Altar. 


direct her to some way by which she could earn her 
daily bread. 

It never occurred to her guileless, unsophisticated 
heart to mistrust him. She implicitly believed God 
had sent him in answer to her prayer. That this 
was simply an excuse to speak to her she had never 
once dreamed. She had not come to that knowl- 
edge of the world which teaches that men’s lips 
often speak one thing and their hearts another. 

She never suspected there was anything unusual 
in this procedure, or that the handsome stranger 
would not have asked the same question of any 
other young girl whom he chanced to meet on the 
steps of the employment bureau. 

Doris clasped her tiny white hands supplicatingly 
before her as she replied, with trembling eager- 
ness, straight from the depths of her heart : 

“ I think God must have sent you to me, sir, for I 
was just praying that I might find some position at 
once. I — I do not know very much — but I should 
try, oh ! so hard to please you, sir, if you would 
only trust me with the position. I am so glad your 
met me instead of some one else. I did not know 
which way to turn. 1 am a stranger in New York.” 

“ Any one could readily see that,” he answered, 
with a light laugh, that somehow jarred harshly 
upon Doris. 


Prayer Answered. 


95 


“What is the position, sir ?” she asked, timidly. 

“ As clerk in a retail dry goods store up town," 
he answered. “ Remain just where you are until I 
summon a cab," he said, turning away. “ I won’t 
be long." 

He had barely stepped to the edge of the pave- 
ment ere the manageress of the agency, with a 
white, anxious face, called to Doris. 

“ My child," she said, leaning over her desk, 
“ would you mind telling me what that gentleman 
was saying to you ? My motive for asking you you 
shall know hereafter." 

In a few brief words Doris related the conversa- 
tion verbatim. 

“ I thought as much," replied the manageress, her 
face dark with anger. “Would to Heaven we 
could find a law to punish such wretches. That 
man is a well-known rou6 ; a greater rascal does 
not walk the streets of New York. Young girls 
should never speak to strangers," she went on, as 
she gazed at the lovely young face. “ Many a 
trap is set for the feet of the innocent and unwary 
in a great, wicked city like New York. You must 
leave here at once," she said, thoughtfully, “ before 
he comes back, and remember — I give you my best 
advice when I say, flee from that man as though he 
were accursed. He is not a man for you to know 


9 6 


Parted at the Altar . 


or trust. I almost ask it as a prayer — for your sake, 
mind." 

“ I will,” replied Doris, sobbing out her gratitude. 

“ I think I will break from our general rule, 
in this one instance, and help you to a situation, 
child.” 

As she spoke she hurriedly wrote down the 
addresses of three or four ladies whose names were 
on her books, in want of a governess for children. 

“ I sincerly hope you will be successful with 
some one of these,” she said, handing the card to 
Doris. 

A moment later, dazed and bewildered, Doris 
found herself on the street again. She had scarcely 
proceeded half a block ere she found herself face to 
face with the handsome stranger again. 

“Where now, my pretty one? Where are you 
going, I say ?” he asked, laying a detaining hand on 
her arm. “ You did not wait for me to return.” 

For one moment Doris’s heart almost ceased beat- 
ing as she gazed up into the dark, angry face, lit up 
by the bold black eyes that were regarding her so 
intently. 

“ 1 — I have changed my mind,” she said, desper- 
ately, as she shook off the touch of that white hand 
from her arm ; “ I do not want the position.” 

“ Some one has been putting nonsense into your 


k y 



\ 






SHE BEHELD FREDERICK THORNTON AND VIVIAN, — See Chapter XVII. 


























































Prayer A7iswered. 


97 


head !” he exclaimed, angrily. “ I won’t be trifled 
with in this way. Come !” 

“ Sir !” cried Doris, haughtily, “ how dare you 
speak so to me? I am young, but I am no coward, 
sir!” she retorted, spiritedly. “ You cannot compel 
me, and you have no right to urge me to accept a 
situation I do not wish. Let go my arm instantly 
and let me pass !” she panted. 

“ Dear me!” he cried, “what a little whirlwind ! 
By George, now, whenever a man tells me women 
lose their beauty when they are thoroughly angry, 
that man and I will have a subject to argue on 
worthy of the eloquence of a politician.” 

In a flash Doris flew past him, hurrying down the 
thoroughfare like a panting, storm-driven swallow. 
The thrilling event which had just transpired had, 
at least, taught her a severe lesson ; she must have 
nothing to say to strangers. 

“ There seems to be so little faith that can be 
placed in any one in this world,” she sobbed, draw- 
ing her thick veil closer over her tear-stained face. 

Doris read the three names on the card. 

“ I will go to the one whose name is on the list 
first. No doubt that is nearest.” 

She had some difficulty in making out the right car 
which she was to take ; but at length she reached 
Mrs. Longworth’s elegant mansion on Fifth avenue. 


9 8 


Parted at the Altar . 


She might well open her eyes in wonder at the 
magnificence displayed in this luxuriant home. 

“ Applying for position of governess ? Ah, yes 
you’re the fifth one this morning so far,” said the foot- 
man. “ You will step this way to my lady’s 
boudoir.” 

Doris followed him through the hall, with its 
crimson velvet carpets and handsome chairs, up 
the broad staircase, where the flowers and statues 
gave the place an aspect of fairyland. She saw 
before her a long, broad corridor, where hung some 
superb pictures. The man drew aside a heavy 
velvet curtain, and she was in Mrs. Longworth’s 
boudoir, in the presence of that lady herself. 

“ Miss Brandon, who wishes to apply for the 
governess’s position,” announced the footman. 

Doris stepped timidly forward, her face flushing 
under the sharp scrutiny of the keen, cold gray 
eyes bent upon her. 

“ Really,” said Mrs. Longworth, indicating a seat 
with a haughty wave of her jeweled hand. “Can 
it be possible you are applying for my situation ?” 

Doris modestly answered : 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“You are so young to teach my child — scarcely 
more than a child yourself.” 


Prayer Answered. 


99 


“ I am seventeen,” replied Doris, in a low, sweet 
voice. 

“ What are your accomplishments, young lady ? 
I suppose you have a thorough knowledge of the 
languages, music, drawing, etc. I should like to 
hear you read. Ah, here is a French novel, and in 
French. This will do.” 

Doris took up the book, and her clear, well- 
modulated accents rather pleased the lady. 

“ I have but one child — a little daughter,” she 
said ; “ and as she is destined to be more than 
ordinarily plain-looking, I should like her to be 
clever and accomplished. Will you read me a little 
Italian ? Then you may sit down at the piano and 
play a few bars of something.” 

And Doris read again, the sweet, soft Italian fall- 
ing like clear notes from her lips. Doris confessed 
to not being very well accomplished in music. 

“ That will do. And now about the remuneration 
expected. Taking into consideration the fact that 
I shall have to pay expensive masters for the 
branches in which you are deficient, I thought of 
offering you one hundred dollars a year.” 

Less — much less — than she paid to the humblest 
servant in her house. The cook would have 
laughed at such a sum ; the housemaids have indig- 
nantly refused it; the footmen have considered 


IOO 


Parted at the Altar . 


themselves insulted at such an offer; but Doris, 
ignorant of all this, thought it a magnificent sum, 
indeed. 

“ A hundred dollars a year !” she repeated. 

Mrs. Longworth, whose conscience was not quite 
dead, thought she was reproaching her. 

“We would begin with that,” she said. “If I 
found my child improved under your care, I would 
increase it. Can you come to me soon?” 

“ At once, if you would like,” replied Doris, 
gratefully. 

“ There remains only one thing, and that is refer- 
ences. Of course, having come from the bureau, 
you have good ones.” 

“ 1 have none,” replied Doris, simply. “ I have 
no one to whom I could refer.” 

“ In that case,” replied Mrs. Longworth, “ please 
consider our interview ended ; and I shall not fail 
to express my indignation to the manager of the 
bureau for having dared to send me a person who 
had no reference to offer. Good morning.’’ And 
with a cold bow, she turned to her book, as though 
to intimate she had nothing further to say. 

There was a burning flush on Doris’s face as she 
passed out of the elegant mansion. 

“ 1 must not lose heart,” she said to herself. “ I 
will try Mrs. Heath next,” 


Prayer Answered ' 


IOI 


Again Doris found herself mounting the steps of a 
magnificent mansion in the fashionable portion of 
the city. 

Mrs. Heath looked up in wonder at the fair young 
girl ushered into her presence. Briefly Doris stated 
her errand. 

“ I may as well state, in the first place, that I have 
no references to offer,” thought Doris; and she 
acted on the impulse of the moment. 

“ In that case it is a pity you troubled yourself by 
coming here,” Mrs. Heath said, curtly. “You will 
not suit me.” 

Doris crushed back the tears in her blue eyes, and 
sought the third address on the list. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Dorchester is at home, Miss,” said the 
servant, ushering Doris into a superb drawing-room. 
“ Be seated.” 

It seemed to Doris she must have been seated in 
the drawing-room quite half an hour, waiting 
patiently, when suddenly she heard footsteps and 
the rustle of a silken robe. The next moment the 
door opened, and an elegantly dressed lady swept 
into the room. She started violently as her eyes 
fell upon Doris’s face. 


CHAPTER XI. 



MRS. DORCHESTER’S COMPANION. 

Like one fascinated, the lady stood motionless in 
the doorway, gazing at the rare beauty of the flower- 
like, girlish face before her. 

In a moment she recovered herself and stepped 
forward. 

“ I am Mrs. Dorchester,” she said, in a voice that 
was thoroughly refined and musical — “ what can I 
do for you ?” 

“ I am Miss Brandon,” said Doris, timidly. “ I 
have called from the registry office in response to 
your application for a governess.” 

“A governess !” repeated the lady. * There has 
been a mistake. I want a companion.” 

“ I should like that quite as much as being a 
governess,” said Doris, eagerly, “ if I could only 
please you.” 

Mrs. Dorchester looked at her anxiously. 

“ Do you know,” she said— and Doris was struck 
' [ 102 ] 


Mrs. Dorchester' s Companion. 


103 


with the bitterness in her voice — “ that you have 
a very beautiful face ?” 

“ No one ever told me so before," said Doris, 
honestly. “Yet even were that the case, that fact 
could give me no pleasure." 

“ No pleasure !" repeated the lady ; and again 
Doris was struck by the exceeding bitterness of 
her voice. “ Ah, if I had a face like yours, I 
would give the world, and everything else in it ; 
and yet you — to whom God has been so good — you 
do not prize it." 

“ No," said Doris. 

“ Then you are not vain," replied Mrs. Dorchester, 
looking pleased. “ If you came to me, I should want 
you to dress exceedingly plain — severely, strictly 
plain. I should want all that beautiful golden hair 
brushed tightly back from your face, and done up 
in a small knot at the back of your head. You 
would not like that." 

“ It would not matter to me, madame, if you were 
pleased with me," replied Doris ; and again the lady 
looked gratified. She was glad to be assured that 
the lovely young stranger did not care about being 
attractive. 

“ Your duties would be very light," she pursued. 
“ I would want you to sit with me and talk to me. 
Sing to me that I could close my eyes and forget 


104 


Parted at the Altar . 


for a brief while. I am very lonely. I should like you 
to clasp my hands, and soothe me with gentle words, 
much as you would a tired child. I am very lonely. 

I would want you to cheer me.” 

“ I would do my best,” replied Doris, wondering 
greatly what manner of woman this was, who, sur- 
rounded by every luxury that the heart could desire, 
appeared so sad and lonely in all this splendor. 

As if reading her very thoughts, the lady went 
on, sharply : 

“ I do not care much for society. I have found it 
fickle and unstable. I have a horror of being 
courted and flattered for my wealth. I might have 
been happier had I been poor like you. My money 
will not buy me that which I crave above everything 
else in this world. If I had a beautiful face I might 
win my heart’s desire,” she went on, wistfully, tears 
filling her eyes, and her bosom heaving convulsively. 
“ If I had been offered my choice of all the gifts 
that Heaven gives to men and women, I should 
have chosen beauty.” 

Doris looked up into the plain, homely face of 
the unhappy lady in wonder. If Doris had but 
known the pitiful story of her life, she could have 
understood that bitter longing. 

“ I want some one near me who is very sym- 
pathetic,” she said, earnestly. “ You please me 


Mrs. Dorchester s Companion. 


105 


better than any one else whom they have sent from 
the agency. You will not complain at the stipula- 
tion. I am sure we can agree as to terms.” 

“ Oh, yes, madame. I am sure of that,” responded 
Doris. 

Suddenly a thought seemed to flit through Mrs. 
Dorchester’s brain. Rising hurriedly, she crossed 
to the mantel and took from it a cabinet photograph, 
which was inclosed in a closed velvet case. 

“ This is my husband’s portrait,” she said, opening 
the case and handing it to Doris. “ Although he 
married me — a plain woman — he is a great beauty- 
worshiper,” she said, eying Doris keenly as she 
spoke. 

One glance at the pictured face, and Doris turned 
pale and red by turns, almost falling to the floor in 
a deep swoon. 

The pictured face, smiling up at her from the 
crimson velvet frame, was the dark, handsome, 
wicked face of the stranger who had accosted her 
on the agency steps. 

Before Doris could utter the cry of astonishment 
and dismay that rose to her lips, there was the 
sound of approaching footsteps, the door was 
thrown open, and handsome, dashing Lawrence Dor 
Chester, the merchant prince, stood on the thresh- 
old. Yes, there was no mistake. Her persecutor 


io6 


Parted at the Altar . 


of that morning was the original of the portrait she 
still held clutched in her trembling hand. 

His wife, watching him intently, noted the start 
of surprise, and heard the exclamation that he 
crushed back as his eyes fell upon Doris. 

“ This young lady, Miss Brandon, has applied for 
the position of companion to me, Lawrence,” 
explained Mrs. Dorchester. 

A perfect rapture of delight shone in his black 
eyes. 

“ She is admirably suited for it, I am sure — most 
admirably. You cannot do better than engage this 
very charming young lady at once. She will be a 
capital acquisition to our household, which has been 
dull beyond all endurance.” 

No more embarrassing situation could be 
imagined. Mrs. Dorchester drew herself up with a 
proud, stately air. She grew white to the lips. 

It pained her to the very heart’s core to have the 
secret sorrow of her life thus rudely laid bare before 
this young stranger. 

“ Engage this pretty girl, by all means, my dear,” 
he said, turning to his wife with a low bow. “ I am 
glad to see you are overcoming your prejudice. 
My wife has always had a constitutional horror of 
pretty faces, as I have a constitutional liking for 
them,” he said, with a laugh, turning to Doris. “ I 


Mrs Dorchester' s Companion . 107 

leave you to make your own arrangements. I shall 
be pleased to see you installed in my house.” 

With a very elaborate bow to both, he quitted the 
room, smiling to Doris as he closed the door. 

“ My husband does not mean anything by his 
flowery manner of speech,” said Mrs. Dorchester, 
forcing a painful smile to her white, trembling lips. 
And Doris saw the effort she made to control her- 
self. Then, after a pause, the unhappy lady looked 
up at her. 

“ I am very sorry,” she said, “ very sorry ; but 
you are too young. I — I need some one older than 
you. I cannot engage you.” 

Doris understood perfectly why the unhappy lady 
had changed her mind so suddenly. She was but an 
innocent child, yet she was rapidly learning many 
of life’s hard lessons. 

“ I am sorry,” said Doris, gently. 

“ You would not have been in peace here,” sighed 
the lady. “ I — I — was mad, I think, not to have 
thought of this before. I am sorry I have detained 
you. Good morning, child. I wish you well.” 

Doris quitted the grand mansion that held so 
much splendid misery, feeling as though one of the 
gates of life had been closed behind her. 

She must try again and again : it was useless to 


io8 


Parted at the Altar. 


give up. She knew very well that she must find 
work or — starve. 

She wondered, vaguely, why the manageress of 
the agency had sent her to the very house of the 
man against whom she had warned her. 

It had been a mistake. While speaking of him 
the manageress had unintentionally jotted down 
that address. 

There was but one remaining place to go to, and, 
wearily enough, Doris wended her way there. 

Again Doris was ushered into a sumptuous draw- 
ing-room, and the little serving-maid announced to 
the mistress, Mrs. Vane, that a very pretty young 
woman had been sent from the agency this time. 

“ I hope she will suit,” sighed Mrs. Vane, descend- 
ing to the drawing-room. She was quite pleased 
with Doris. “ I will see what my daughter thinks 
about engaging you for her younger sister. I 
usually consult her in everything . 1 Send Miss 
Isabel here,” she said to the servant who responded 
to the touch of the bell. 

“ Dear me ! what can she want?” cried a petulant 
voice in the upper corridor, and a moment later a 
young lady, with her hair still in curl papers, and a 
rather soiled blue silk wrapper, entered the room. 

“ My dear,” said the mother humbly, “ this young 
girl has come to apply for the position of governess 


Mrs. Dorchester s Companion . 109 

to your little sister, Daisy. Do you think she 
would suit us?” 

Isabel Vane stared haughtily at the lovely, flower- 
like face, and after a few remarks, rose and quitted 
the room, calling her mother to join her for a 
moment. 

“ You will excuse me fora few moments/' said 
Mrs. Vane, anxious to make up in kindness for her 
daughter’s lack of courtesy. 

Doris bowed. 

She soon heard the daughter in a nigh dispute 
with the mother in an adjoining room. 

“ I really believe you have taken leave of your 
senses to even think of bringing a girl like that into the 
house for Captain Alden to see and fall in love with.” 

“ She seems like such a nice, modest young 
person, Isabel,” said the mother — “really the nicest 
who has applied yet. She could be kept well in the 
background when the captain is here. I could man- 
age that, I am sure.” 

“ If she knew there was a handsome young man 
coming to the house whom your daughter wished to 
marry, rest assured the artful minx would contrive 
to put herself in his way. No, no, she must not, she 
shall not come. I won’t have her, I say. You 
ought to have known she wouldn’t suit the moment 
you looked at her. A pretty governess in the 


IIO 


Parted at the Altar . 


house to try to outwit me with my lover ! 1 say it 

isn’t to be thought of ! He’s coming to call for me 
this forenoon to go riding in the park ; get her out 
of the house before he comes,” she cried, shrilly. 

Isabel Vane flounced up-stairs, and her mother 
returned to Doris, never dreaming she had heard all. 

“ I am sorry. You are a little too inexperienced, 
I fear,” she said, kindly. “ I am sorry, but I cannot 
engage you.” 

Tears sprang to Doris’s pretty blue eyes, and that 
quite distressed the gentle, tender-hearted lady. She 
arose quickly to depart. 

“ Stay a moment, my good girl,” said Mrs. Vane, 
laying a kindly hand on her arm. “ Perhaps I can 
put you in the way of obtaining a good position. 
Now that I think of it, I remember Mrs. Thornton, 
the banker’s wife, wants a companion. I will give 
you a note to her.” 

The words had hardly left her lips ere Doris 
threw up her hands, and fell in a dead faint upon 
the floor. 



CHAPTER XII. 

IN THE SERVANTS’ HALL. 

When Doris opened her eyes, she found Mrs. 
Vane bending over her in the greatest consternation. 
Out in the corridor Miss Isabel’s voice could be 
heard, shrilly giving orders that the girl must be 
taken from the drawing-room down to the servants’ 
hall, without delay. 

“ It will not be necessary,” said Doris, struggling 
to her feet. “ I am going now, madame.” 

“ Was it the closeness of the room that made you 
faint, my poor child ? or — or did you faint from 
want of — of food, or anything of that kind ? Par- 
don me, I could not send you away so, if it was,” 
said Mrs. Vane, pitying the sweet, death-white 
face. 

Doris flushed. 

“ It was only a sudden faintness that seized me, 
madame — a sharp pain at my heart,” she answered, 
truthfully ; but she did not add that it was the 

[m] 



I 12 


Parted at the Altar . 


mention of her handsome, faithless young husband’s 
mother’s name that brought that terrible pain 
there. 

Frederick’s mother wanted a companion. Dare 
she — the forsaken bride, the injured young wife — go 
to her? The very thought almost took her breath 
away, and bewildered her. Her head was in a 
whirl ; her heart beat so loud and so fast, she was 
sure the lady must hear it. 

“ I hope you will be successful, my child,” said 
Mrs. Vane, bowing her out of the drawing-room. 

“ Too pretty to suit,” whispered the maid to Doris 
as she led the way to the front door. “ If you went 
to Lamartine, and got him to paint a few wrinkles 
on your face, you would not find it half so hard to 
get a place.” 

“ Who is Lamartine ?” asked Doris, scarcely know- 
ing herself why she asked the question. 

“ He is the man to whom every one in New York 
goes for disguises,” laughed the maid. “ He can 
change any one so completely that one can hardly 
recognize one’s self. Why, a forger who had 
taken a great amount of money lately, stayed near 
the scene of the robbery for weeks. He was so 
cleverly disguised, his own brother did not know 
him. When the affair leaked out, it was found he 
had been to Lamartine.” 


In the Servants HalL 


”3 

Doris’s every nerve thrilled as she listened. A 
sudden idea flashed through her brain, — Why should 
she not go to Lamartine ? If he could disguise her 
in perfect safety, she would dare to enter her hus- 
band’s home. 

Different characters yield to different temptations. 
The temptation to enter the home of Frederick’s 
mother — look upon the face of the husband who 
had so ruthlessly deserted her, almost at the very 
altar, — was so sweet, so subtle, she could not resist 
it, for, Heaven help her, in spite of all, she loved 
her handsome young husband still. 

“Loved him with a bitter yearning that would never pass 
away ; 

Loved him with a ceaseless passion that would never know 
decay.” 

Yes, she would go to Lamartine. It must have 
been fate that caused the maid at Mrs. Vane’s to 
utter those words to her. 

She found the place with but little difficulty. It 
was noon hour, and Monsieur’s parlors were for the 
time deserted. 

Doris entered timidly, and a moment later the 
dapper little “ artist,” as he chose to call himself, 
appeared. 

“You wish to see me, madame ? he said. “ In 
what can I be of service to you ?” 


Parted at the Altar . 


tt 4 

“ I want — a disguise,” she answered, u so com- 
plete — so perfect — I could not be recognized by any 
one who ever saw me before.” 

“ It will be difficult to find one like that,” he said, 
looking at the lovely young face in intense surprise. 
“ A mystery, a romance ; perhaps an elopement will 
be the outcome of this affair,” he thought. 

“ I see a way to meet your wishes, madame,” he 
said aloud, “ but it will be a sad pity to change such 
a face — for any reason ; still, if you desire it to be 
done, I shall comply, of course.” 

“ I want it done,” said Doris. 

He gave her a hand basin containing a dark, 
clear liquid and a sponge, and bade her sponge her 
face lightly with the mixture ; and though she had 
come there purposely for the disguise, now that 
she was on the point of acquiring it, her whole 
soul rose in rebellion against it. 

Monsieur Lamartine saw her hesitation, and 
fancied that she was anxious about her clear, white, 
delicate skin. 

“You need not fear it,” he said; “the liquid is 
quite harmless. All trace of it will disappear if 
you use this,” showing her a bottle of clear amber 
liquid. “Three drops of this, put into cold water 
will, at any time, remove the stain. Bathe your 
face well with the sponge.” 


In the Servant I Hall \ 


”5 


She obeyed him shrinkingly. 

Then, indicating another seat before a table 
covered with toilet articles and innumerable labeled 
bottles, he bade her unbind her lovely golden 
curls. 

For quite half an hour he busied himself over 
the long, shining tresses. Then he asked her to 
look in the glass. Doris looked, and sat staring in 
wonder at the strange face the mirror reflected. 
She would never have recognized her own self. 
She saw a dark-brown face, dark arched eyebrows 
and lashes, a low forehead half revealed, half con- 
cealed by a mass of dark, wavy hair. 

“ If those blue eyes were but black you would be 
a perfect brunette, and the change in your appear- 
ance complete. Are you satisfied ?” 

Doris bowed her head in assent. When she 
paid Monsieur Lamartine his charges, she found she 
had not one cent left. 

“ I hope whatever object this has to serve is an 
honorable one, and may therefore help your pur- 
pose,” he said, bowing Doris out of the parlor. 

Out on the street Doris shrank from the gaze of 
passers-by. It almost seemed to her they must 
know she was not what she represented herself to 
be. Though she had adopted this measure for 
looking again upon her husband’s face, hearing his 


Parted at the Altar. 


1 16 


voice, remaining unrecognized herself, there was 
something so false and deceptive about it that her 
sweet, candid nature rebelled against it ; yet the 
one passionate, craving desire to enter the home of 
the husband who had deserted her led her on. 

By patient inquiry Doris found that the home of 
the Thorntons was in the suburbs of the metropolis. 
She was obliged to walk the distance. At length 
she reached the villa. Ah ! what a magnificent 
place it was ! — on the brow of the hill that sloped 
gently to the glittering Hudson. 

Her heart gave a great bound. This was 
Frederick’s home ! 

Timidly she entered the great arched gateway 
and walked up the long, paved walk to the house. 

Green, velvety, close-shaven lawns, brilliant with 
beds of rare flowers, dotted here and there, 
stretched out on either side. Marble statues 
gleamed amid the green foliage, and ' 1 fountains 
rippled in the sunshine. Gorgeous peacocks 
strutted over the greensward, and song-birds swung 
gayly to and fro in their gilded cages on the 
verandas of the grand gray stone house. 

“Ah me!” sobbed Doris, bitterly, “was there 
ever such a bitter fate as mine? I should be com- 
ing here to-day as Frederick’s happy bride, instead 
of creeping up to these doors, applying for the 


In the Servants Hall. 


1 x 7 


position of paid companion to his haughty lady 
mother.” 

Suddenly from around the corner of the building 
sprang a large, ferocious blood-hound, and at his 
heels was a tall slip of a girl, in a fluttering white 
dress, her red, tangled hair flying in the breeze, her 
cheeks glowing, and her eyes bright with the 
excitement. 

Doris’s heart beat fast. Intuitively, she knew 
this must be Frederick’s youngest sister — “Trixy, 
the Romp,” as he had designated her. Before she 
could take but that first fleeting glance, the dog had 
observed the stranger, and sprang toward her with 
a loud, savage growl. 

Doris recoiled in terror, uttering a piteous cry of 
dismay. 

“Down, Tiger, down,” cried Trixy Thornton, 
seizing the dog by the collar as she gained his side 
quite out of breath. “For shame, frightening a 
stranger so. 

“ He won’t harm you,” she said, turning to Doris. 
“He looks big and ferocious, but he’s only an over- 
grown puppy. Who did you wish to see ?” she 
asked, coming closer to Doris, and looking curiously 
into the sweet, sad, dark face. 

“ Mrs. Thornton,” replied Doris. “ I have 
brought a letter from Mrs. Vane. I have come to 


1 1 8 


Parted at the Altar . 


apply for the position of companion to Mrs. Thorn- 
ton/’ 

“ My gracious ! you’d make a much better com- 
panion for me,” laughed Trixy, shaking back her 
mane of tangled red curls, and whistling for the dog 
to follow. “ Come this way, please. You shall see 
mamma at once. I hope she will engage you.” 

Doris’s heart warmed to the impulsive girl at 
once. She could have knelt down beside her, 
and kissed her pretty white hands. 

Trixy led Doris directly to her mother’s boudoir. 

“Mamma,” she said, “ here is a young lady who 
brings you a letter from Mrs. Vane.” 

Mrs. Thornton glanced up languidly from her 
book, and motioning Doris to a seat, carefully 
perused the letter. 

“ Mrs. Vane has omitted mentioning your name. 
May I inquire what it is?” she asked at length. 

“ Doris Carlisle,” replied Doris, faintly, rind she 
shuddered, recalling the old trite and true lines : 

Oh, what a tangled web we weave 
When first we practice to deceive.” 

No one ever yet practiced a deception but what 
she found herself entangled in many more to escape 
the consequences of the first. 

It was so with poor Doris. 


In the Servants' Hall ’ 


119 


“You are quite young, Miss Carlisle,” replied 
Mrs. Thornton, turning a pair of dark eyes on her, 
that reminded her so much of Frederick’s. “ Still, 
you could have no better recommendation than a 
letter from Mrs. Vane. Dear me, Miss Carlisle, 
what are you gazing at so intently ?” 

It was a portrait in crayon of Frederick Thornton. 
Doris was gazing at the pictured, smiling face with 
her heart in her eyes. 

Mrs. Thornton’s remark, and the haughty wonder 
in her voice, recalled Doris’s scattered senses. 

“ The portrait is — is — so like your face, madame,” 
stammered Doris, confusedly. 

“ It is the portrait of my son,” replied Mrs. 
Thornton, the frown clearing from her face once 
more. She was always pleased when any one spoke 
of a resemblance between her handsome son and 
herself. 

This proud, cold woman loved her daughters 
after her own stately fashion, but she fairly idolized 
her son. 

To Doris’s intense delight, after answering the 
usual questions, Mrs. Thornton decided to engage 
her as companion. 

“ When can you come, Miss Carlisle?” she asked. 

“ At once,” replied Doris, fearing to leave her 
est she should change her mind. 


120 


Parted at the Altar . 


“That will please me,” said Mrs. Thornton. 
“ Your luggage can be sent for to-morrow.” 

Thus it was that poor, hapless Doris, the deserted 
young bride, gained an entrance into the household 
of her mother-in-law. Only Heaven could have 
foretold where this rash step was to lead. It would 
have been better for Doris had death claimed her 
then and there. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

WRITING LETTERS. 

“ I hope I have not done an imprudent thing in 
engaging this young girl,” thought Mrs. Thornton, 
laying down her book, and gazing thoughtfully out 
of the window. “ There seems something strange 
about her — something I cannot quite comprehend. 
If ever there was a tragedy in a human face, there 
is one written in hers.” 

Then she dismissed the subject from her thoughts. 
She had sent for Doris to come to her boudoir as 
soon as she felt herself sufficiently rested ; and in 
a short time Doris returned to her. 

It was quite noticeable to Mrs. Thornton how 


Writing Letters . 


I 2 I 


strange and ill at ease Miss Carlisle was in her 
presence. 

“ I must set her at ease,” she thought. ‘ Dear me, 
this shyness is most uncomfortable.” 

So she talked easily and kindly to Doris, until the 
white, startled face grew calm and still. 

“ You shall write some letters for me after lunch- 
eon, Miss Carlisle,” she said. “ The first, and by 
far the most important of them all, is to my son. 
He left home only this morning to be gone a fort- 
night, and it almost seems to me that he has been 
gone a week.” 

In all her life, Doris never experienced more con- 
flicting emotions than when she wrote that letter 
which Frederick’s mother dicated. 

The white hands trembled so over the words 
“ My darling Frederick,” that she could scarcely 
hold the pen ; but with a great effort she controlled 
herself, knowing that the eyes of his mother were 
regarding her curiously. 

“ Your hand trembles, Miss Carlisle,” she said, 
frowning. “ Are you of a nervous temperament ? I 
have a horror of nervous people.” 

“ I am not nervous,” replied Doris, in a low voice. 
“ Oh, I hope I have not annoyed you. I — I was 
anxious to write the letter as nicely as I could.” 

“ One should always take the greatest pains with 


122 


Parted at the Altar . 


every duty one has to perform,” said Mrs. Thornton. 
“ Well, now that you have it fairly commenced, go 
on to say the house seems more than lonely to me 
without him ; that I shall expect him home sooner 
than a fortnight, if he can adjust matters satisfac- 
torily. 

“ Say that the ball which we had arranged to take 
place on the 20th of this month, we shall set for the 
eighteenth. And last — and by far the most pleas- 
ing news for him — say that Vivian, his sweet- 
heart, is coming to spend a few days at the villa. 
That will bring him home quickly, if anything can.” 

Of course, it was only her fancy, but Mrs. Thorn- 
ton quite imagined that she heard a little, gasping 
cry. The dark head bent lower over the white 
page. She could not see Miss Carlisle’s face. 

“ Heaven help me ! how can I write that !” 
thought Doris, crushing back the bitter tears that 
threatened to fall from her long lashes ^and blot 
the page. “ Oh, God ! how can I, his wife — who 
love him so — write those words!” 

She had not thought of facing such bitter heart 
pangs as this, when she entered her husband’s 
home in disguise, accepting the position of com- 
panion to his haughty lady mother. 

“ You write slowly, Miss Carlisle,” said Mrs. 
Thornton, frowning impatiently. “ You heard 


Writing Letters . 


123 


what I dictated last, did you not ? The sentence 
was, Miss Courtney, his fiancee, is to spend a few 
days with us.” 

Making a desperate effort at self-control, Doris 
penned the words, and they seemed to dance in a 
blood-red mist before her eyes. She longed, with a 
bitter longing she could hardly repress, to cry out : 

“ Vivian Courtney can never marry your son, 
cold, proud lady, for he is already wedded, and to 
me.” 

What would Mrs. Thornton have said had she 
known that this young girl sitting so quietly by her 
side was her idolized son’s young wife — bride to 
her brilliant, handsome young heir — whom she 
loved as she loved no one else on earth, and who 
had been parted from her bridegroom at the very 
altar, as it were. 

At last the letter was finished, sealed and directed. 
Doris could have bent her head and kissed the 
envelope, for she knew it would rest in his hands; 
those dear, strong, white hands, that had thrilled 
her heart to the very core as they had clasped 
hers on that memorable wedding night, as she 
stood with him, so cold and awed and frightened, 
before the altar. 

“ The rest of the letters can remain until after 
luncheon.” 


124 


Parted at the Altar . 


Doris had not heard the remark ; she was think- 
ing how fortunate it was that Frederick Thornton 
had never seen her writing. 

Mrs. Thornton was just about to speak again, 
when she was interrupted by the sudden entrance 
of Isabel and Gwendolin Thornton. 

Doris raised her eyes in breathless anxiety to see 
what Frederick’s sisters were like. Cold and 
proud, like their haughty mother. She saw that at 
a glance ; but despite this, her heart gave a strange 
thrill as Isabel Thornton glanced toward her with 
eyes so startlingly like her brother’s. 

“ My daughters, this is Miss Carlisle, my new 
companion,” said the mother, languidly. 

Both young ladies bowed coldly to Doris, then 
seemed to ignore her presence completely. Doris 
rose to leave the room. 

“You need not go,” said Mrs. Thornton; and 
Doris resumed her seat. Their whole conversation 
was about the coming ball, and about their brother. 

“ I shall be so glad to see Frederick settled in life 
at last,” murmured his mother. “ I have always 
been in great fear lest he should fall in love with 
some girl — a nobody with a pretty face — and 
marry her on the impulse of the moment, he is 
so very impulsive.” 

“ I believe, even in that case, you would have for- 


Writing Letters. 


125 


given him, mamma,” laughed Gwendolin, lightly ; 
“ you idolize him so.” 

Mrs. Thornton drew herself up to her fullest 
height. 

“ Knowing my principles as well as you do, you 
surprise me by uttering such a remark, Gwendolin,” 
she said, severely. “ Much as 1 love him, that is 
the one thing that I could never have forgiven my 
son — marrying beneath him. 1 would disown him 
in the moment I heard of such an act of folly. He 
should never inherit one dollar of the Thornton 
estate. I would rather see him lying dead at my 
feet than married beneath him.” 

“ You are pleased with Vivian,” smiled Gwendo- 
lin. 

“ The desire of my heart will be gratified when 
my son marries Vivian Courtney,” replied her 
mother. “ She is beautiful, an heiress to a million 
in her own right, and is a lady by birth and educa- 
tion. She is in every way fitted to become Fred- 
erick’s bride. Why should I not be pleased ?” 

Doris’s heart turned cold as she listened. Every 
word cut her heart like the thrust of a dagger. 
She could have cried aloud as the words fell, clear, 
distinct and cruel, from those cold, proud lips. 

She bad treasured the wild hope in her poor, 
hungry heart that she might be able by a world of 


126 


Parted at the Altar . 


patience and endurance to win her way at last to 
Frederick’s mother’s heart ; now she saw how futile 
had been that wild fancy. It could never be done — 
never while the sun shone or the grass grew. How 
little hope there was for her, after all. 

Her bowed head dropped lower and lower. Mrs. 
Thornton noticed it. 

“You look tired, Miss Carlisle,” she said. “Per- 
haps you would like to walk out into the grounds ; 
the air is refreshing.” 

Doris gladly availed herself of the opportunity. 

Out in the solitude of the grounds, when quite 
shut out from the view of the open windows by 
the interlacing trees, Doris threw up her white 
arms with a bitter cry to Heaven : 

“ Oh, I can never endure it !” she cried. “ It 
would drive me mad ! — yes, mad. I thought I was 
stronger, but, no, my heart is breaking. After I 
have looked upon Frederick’s false, handsome face 
I will go quietly away.” 

The words had scarcely died away on fter lips ere 
she beheld a sight which made her catch her breath 
with a startled cry. 

A young girl in a white mull dress, carrying a 
white parasol in her hand edged with Oriental lace, 
came swiftly up the path. It was Vivian Courtney. 


Writing Letters . 


127 


Would Vivian recognize her, despite the dark, 
disguising stain on her fair face and golden hair? 

It was a moment of intense suspense to Doris. 
Her heart beat in great stifling throbs, and terror 
deepened in her blue eyes. With desperate hands 
she clung tightly to the marble railing that sur- 
rounded the fountain. 

Nearer, nearer Vivian approached, eyeing intently 
the slender, girlish figure standing by the fountain. 
There was something strangely familiar about her, 
yet, looking into the dark face, Vivian did not 
recognize her. 

With quick steps she passed Doris by and went 
on to the house. 

“ 1 am safe !” muttered Doris, drawing her breath 
hard. “ She does not know me.” 

She looked after Vivian, the graceful, haughty 
beauty, the belle of the seminary in that other life 
which seemed so far behind her, whom Frederick 
Thornton loved. 

Young, an heiress, the idol of both parents’ and 
lover’s heart — ah, what more had life to offer her? 

So much had been given to Vivian, while to her 
had been given — nothing. She asked herself why 
God had distributed His gifts so unfairly. Even 
the love that would have crowned her life and made 


128 


Parted at the Altar. 


this poor earth a heaven to her, had been taken from 
her and given to Vivian, the beauty. 

And, standing there in the red glow of the sun- 
light, the words of the poet came to her — 

" No one could tell, for nobody knew. 

Why love was made to gladden a few ; 

And hearts that would forever be true 
Go lone and starved the whole way through,” 

“ But for her he might have loved me,” sobbed 
Doris, and the pangs of jealousy, more bitter to 
endure than death, swept through the girl’s heart. 

Slowly she walked back to the house, and up to 
Mrs. Thornton’s boudoir ; that lady was in the best 
of spirits. 

“ I am glad you are here, Miss Carlisle,” she said. 
“ I want you to go to the apartments that have been 
set apart for Miss Courtney’s use, and see that they 

are in readiness for her. See that fresh flowers are 

\ 

putin the vases, and this portrait of my son Fred- 
erick placed on the mantel.” 



CHAPTER XIV. 

LIFE IS TOO HARD TO BEAR. 

Doris took the portrait and turned away. Mrs. 
Thornton must not see the deadly pallor that stole 
over her as her eyes rested on that handsome face. 

Out in the corridor* beyond the gaze of his 
mother’s stern eyes, poor, hapless Doris gave full 
vent to her pent-up feelings. 

“ He was hers,” she cried out, covering the por- 
trait with passionate kisses. “ No one else had a 
right to love him. The picture belonged in her 
room — not Vivian’s.” 

Doris carried out Mrs. Thornton’s instructions 
faithfully — all save placing Frederick Thornton’s 
portrait on Vivian’s mantel. That she carried to 
her own room and hid it securely from all prying 
eyes (never dreaming of the cruel consequences 
that would accrue from that rash act), there to wor- 
ship it in secret. 


[129] 


130 


Parted at the Altar . 


Poor Doris! Despite the fact that she believed 
her young husband had willfully and deliberately 
deserted her, she still loved him with a wonderful, 
noble love; there was something half divine in its 
intensity. Only a noble girl could be capable of 
such a love. The fire of passion does not touch 
ignoble souls ; they are incapable of it. 

During the next few days of Vivian’s stay at 
Thornton Villa Doris avoided her as much as possi- 
ble. A bitter pang of jealousy shot through her 
heart that she could neither subdue nor control, as 
her eyes rested upon her rival. It seemed to Doris 
that Vivian was growing more beautiful each day. 
It was little wonder Frederick Thornton loved her. 
Gay, piquant Vivian could count lovers by the score. 

They were all so fond of Vivian at Thornton 
Villa it made Doris’s heart ache to see it. She had 
had such wild, vain hopes of coming to Frederick’s 
home and winning her way to the hearts of his 
mother and sister ! Before she had been in that 
aristocratic household a week she knew her dream 
would never be realized. 

One afternoon, while she was reading to Mrs. 
Thornton, a telegram came. 

“ It is from ray son,” said his mother, laying it 
down with a pleased smile. “ Will you oblige me, 
Miss Carlisle, by going to find Isabel and Vivian, 


Life is too Hard to Bear . 13 1 

and telling them Frederick will be with us this 
evening? I think you will find them in Vivian’s 
room. They were there reading not half an hour 
since. Why, how white you look, Miss Carlisle ! 
Are you ill?” she asked, in wonder. “You seem 
dazed !” 

“ No ! no !” murmured Doris, striving to hide her 
intense excitement and piteous confusion. “ The 
room is so warm !” 

“ And I think it extremely cold for this season of 
the year,” replied Mrs. Thornton, impatiently. 

Doris never knew how she left the room. The 
ceiling, the floor, the cold, proud face of Frederick’s 
haughty lady-mother, seemed to whirl around her. 
She remembered nothing until she found herself in 
the broad corridor. 

She could not go to Vivian’s room yet. She 
must sit down and try to collect her scattered 
senses — try to still the trembling that had seized 
her. 

Frederick was coming home. In a few short 
hours he would be there, and beneath his mother’s 
roof he would meet the poor, helpless little bride he 
had so cruelly deserted almost at the very altar. Y et 
her disguise was so perfect he would not recognize 
her ; Vivian had not. 


132 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ I am growing dazed, as Mrs. Thornton says,” 
she murmured. “ 1 had almost forgotten to deliver 
her message.” 

Still trembling pitifully, she moved on down the 
corridor, and standing at the western window, she 
saw Isabel Thornton and Vivian. She walked up to 
them like one in a dream. 

Vivian turned her head haughtily, and looked at 
the slim, dark figure who had stopped beside her, 
in surprise. Evidently she was not pleased with 
this interruption of the conversation she was having 
with Isabel. 

Then poor Doris made the first fatal mistake of 
her life. 

“ Frederick is coming here,” she said. “ He will 
be here this evening.” 

The sound of her own voice seemed so hoarse and 
unnatural Doris could never have recognized it 
herself. \ 

Isabel Thornton gazed at her in astonishment, not 
unmixed with dismay. The familiar way in which 
her mother’s paid companion spoke of her brother 
Frederick amazed her. 

In that instant Doris saw her almost fatal mistake, 
and hastened to repair the great error. 

“ These were your mother’s words,” she said, 


Life is too Hard to Bear . 


33 


shrinking back confusedly. “ I repeated her 
message in her own words.” 

And turning away before Isabel Thornton could 
find her voice, she fled like a startled doe down the 
corridor again. 

“ A droll creature,” laughed Isabel, turning to her 
companion. “ There seems to be something so 
mysterious and strange about her.” 

“ I have been thinking the same thing myself,” 
returned Vivian, with a merry laugh. “ She 
reminds me of some one whom I have seen ; but I 
cannot think who, to save my life. She is pretty, 
too, with a strange, weird sort of gypsyish beauty. 
I never remember seeing before such deep blue 
eyes, with such a brune complexion and jetty hair. 
Do you know the fancy comes to me that I have 
seen that girl before ?” 

“ She is hardly worth discussing, my dear 
Vivian,” said Isabel, yawning, “yet, strange to say, 
our Trixy is quite fond of her.” 

That afternoon, an hour later, Doris suddenly 
encountered Vivian at the door of her room, as she 
was passing by. 

“ I was just wishing that I could see you,” said 
Vivian. “ I have a little favor to ask of you. Would 
you mind coming into my room and helping me a 


134 


Parted at the Altar . 


little with my toilet ? I— I wish to look particularly 
nice this afternoon.” 

A fierce, bitter pang shot through Doris’s jealous 
heart. She knew but too well why Vivian Court- 
ney desired to look so particularly nice on this 
eventful evening ; it was because Frederick Thorn- 
ton was expected home. 

Silently she followed Vivian into her room, half a 
dozen of the beauty’s prettiest dresses were lying 
across the bed ; she had evidently been inspecting 
them. 

“ Not one of them seems to please me to-day,” 
declared Vivian. “ I would like you to exercise 
your good taste by judging for me. Do you think 
this cream lace, with great clusters of deep-red 
passion roses at the belt, would be most becoming? 
or do you fancy I would look best in that rose-pink 
mull? or the Nile green silk, with the white lace, on 
the back of that chair by the window ?” \ 

“There seems to be little choice between the 
three, Miss Vivian,” said Doris, in a hard, con- 
strained voice. 

“ I think the cream lace will be more attractive,” 
said Vivian, reflectively. “ Will you kindly assist 
me a little with the looping on the left side — it has 
come out.” 

Doris bowed her head and took up the dress, 


Life is too Hard to Bear . 


135 


Ah, how, beautiful Vivian would look in it she well 
knew. How admiringly the eyes of Frederick 
Thornton would rest on her — she would wear it to 
be attractive to him — and the thought was bitter as 
death to Doris. 

How radiant Vivian looked when she stood before 
the mirror dressed ! The cream lace dress, which 
showed every line of her exquisitely slender, grace- 
ful figure to the fullest advantage ; the round white 
arms, bare to the elbows, were encircled by ruby 
bands that sparkled like coals of fire, whichever way 
she turned ; a necklace of rubies encircled her fair, 
white throat, and a dazzling butterfly, with gold 
and ruby wings, caught back her jetty curls. Her 
cheeks were flushed, and her dark eyes glowed. 

“ You have a wonderful tact for arranging one’s 
toilet, Miss Carlisle,’' said Vivian, critically survey- 
ing the effect in the mirror, and smiling pleasedly — 
“you have missed your vocation, I think. You 
ought to have been a lady’s maid instead of a com- 
panion.” 

How Doris longed to turn to her and cry out : 

“You are mistaken. Heaven never intended me 
for the one or the other — but for what I am — Fred- 
erick Thornton’s wife 0 ” 

“ I shall remember your kindness in assisting me,” 
said Vivian, loftily, “ and to-morrow I will look 


136 


Parted at the Altar. 


over my wardrobe and see if 1 can pick up some- 
thing for you, Miss Carlisle ; you are very clever — 
very.” 

“ Do not trouble yourself, I beg of you,” said 
Doris, stiffly. “ I would accept nothing — nothing 
whatever from your hands.” 

A sudden thought seemed to strike the petted 
young heiress. 

“ Perhaps you would not be averse to a little 
spending money, then, Miss Carlisle. I wish to 
show my appreciation in some substantial manner.” 

Doris recoiled quickly. 

“No, no,” she answered, huskily. “I could not 
accept a penny from you. I want nothing at your 
hands. Nothing.” 

And she hurriedly quitted the room ere Vivian 
could reply. 

“Was there ever such an odd, strange little 
creature?” murmured the heiress. “Yet, there is 
something about her that quite fascinates me in 
spite of myself.” 

She went down to the drawing-room to join 
Isabel and Gwendolin, and thought no more of the 
little companion with the brune face and dark hair. 

Meanwhile, Doris was in her own room, sobbing 
as though her heart would break. 

How she wished that she had never come to this 


Life is too Hard to Bear . 


137 


statelj^, cold, proud home. It was too late to undo 
it now. She must live through it, let it be what it 
might. 

Oh, if Heaven would but help her! The only 
wish just at that moment in her heart was, that she 
could turn her face to the wall and die — die, even 
though he would be there in a few short hours, and 
the desire of her heart — to look once more on his 
face — be granted. 

She would like to kneel, with the portrait clasped 
close to her heart, by her white bed and die there. 

It mattered little to her what they would think or 
say when they came and found her dead. 

Frederick would hear of it. And perhaps he 
would come and look upon her face, understand it 
all, and recognize her and feel sorry,; and, in his 
sorrow bend and kiss her death-cold lips. He would 
know she died because she could not live without 
him. 



CHAPTER XV. 

A TORTURED HEART. 

Frederick was coming home. In a few hours 
from now she should see him. 

The idea seemed almost more than she could 
grasp. What would he say when he found her 
there? That question began to assume a terrible 
form to poor Doris. Would there be a scene ? 

She knelt there, in the red glow of the sunlight, 
trying in vain to drive the terrible doubts and fears 
away. Perhaps it was some faint foreshadowing 
of the sorrow to come that made her tremble as she 
knelt there — the first thrill of that strange tragedy 
which was to cross her life. 

There came a tap at the door. 

“ Mrs. Thornton would be glad to have Miss 
Carlisle come to her boudoir.” 

And with a slow, hesitating step, Doris went. 

“ I want you to read to me, Miss Carlisle,” she 
[138] 


A 'Tor hired Heart. 


139 


said. “ I never remembered an afternoon to pass 
so slowly.” 

Mechanically, Doris picked up the book. The 
lines on the page seemed to waver before her eyes. 
The dusk crept up, and the stars came out. Long 
since one of the little maids had entered and lighted 
the chandelier. Still Doris read on. It was better 
than talking. Doris felt that she should go mad if 
Mrs Thornton were to talk to her about Frederick 
and Vivian — her favorite subject. 

Suddenly there was a sound of carriage wheels 
stopping before the porch, and the next moment 
voices were heard in the lower hall. 

<f My son has arrived,” said Mrs. Thornton. 

Doris spoke no word. Her face grew pale as 
marble, even under the brune tint. She could count 
the great, gasping heart throbs. She clung with 
cold, trembling hands to the table lest she should 
fall, praying, with white lips and shadowed eyes, 
that she might not die when her eyes fell upon his 
face. 

Some minutes passed — how many Doris never 
knew. Then came the sound of footsteps that Doris 
knew so well. She pressed her hand on her heart, 
for its wild beating frightened her as each step fell 
on her ear. She could have cried aloud in agony 


140 


Parted at the Altar. 


with the terrible tension of her nerves ; but her 
white lips could form no sound. 

The next minute he had entered the room. Hand- 
some, laughing Frederick Thornton stood before 
her. She never understood why the sight did not 
kill her. Why, when her eyes rested upon him, she 
did not fall dead. 

Oh, how kindly he greeted his mother, laughing 
heartily when she told him the days he had spent 
away from her seemed like so many months., 

How strange it was that he could laugh, Doris 
thought, when the sin of breaking a heart lay at his 
door. 

Doris shrank back among the shadows of the 
heavy silken curtains, but Mrs. Thornton spoke her 
name, and Doris rose slowly. 

“ Frederick, my son, this is my companion, Miss 
Carlisle,” she heard his mother say ; what else was 
uttered Doris never knew. 

Frederick Thornton looked carelessly in the direc- 
tion she indicated. He saw a small, slim, dark-faced 
little creature, who seemed to be trembling with 
confusion, he thought. His eyes rested on her only 
an instant. Then with a low bow he turned away. 

Doris stood rooted to the spot. Silent, motionless 
all the tragedy and passion of her love shining in, 
her face, her arms fell helplessly to her side. She 


A Tortured Heart. 


141 


could not have moved to have saved her life. She 
had expected, despite the change in her, that he, the 
handsome young husband, who had wedded her, 
would recognize her ; that he would cry out either 
in anger or emotion. But no ; he turned away, 
knowing her not. Oh, the pity of it ! — the cruel 
pity of it ! 

She remembered how they had parted in the sunny 
hotel parlor. 

“ I shall be back within an hour,” he had said, as 
he tossed the well-filled purse into her lap to replen- 
ish her wardrobe ; then, with a smile and a nod, 
without a farewell kiss, he had turned and walked 
out of the room, leaving her to her fate. 

She remembered the horrible nights and the days 
that had followed — how she nearly went mad with 
watching for him and calling wildly upon him to 
come back to her. 

And she remembered the crowning blow of all — 
when the good old housekeeper had taken her in 
her arms, attempting to soothe her as though she 
had been a little child, as she whispered the pitiful 
words in her ear : 

“ Do not grieve and weep for him, child ; in my 
opinion he is not worth a tear. He will never come 
back ; he has deserted you.” 

Doris lived over again that horrible scene, as, quite 


142 


Parted at the Altar . 


unnoticed, she gazed at the handsome face of her 
faithless young husband. Oh ! why had he married 
her if he had intended to desert her? 

Of the terrible accident that had occurred, nearly 
costing Frederick Thornton his life, and the loss of 
memory as to the late events which had transpired, 
sweeping away all remembrance of a bride who 
awaited him, of course Doris knew nothing ; and 
thus fate continued to play at cross-purposes with 
these two. It was to end in a tragedy so pitiful 
that the angels would weep for Doris, the helpless 
child-bride whose young life had all gone wrong. 

In the evening the ladies assembled in the draw- 
ing-room, where Frederick and his father awaited 
them. Doris would have given much to absent 
herself, but Mrs. Thornton insisted that she should 
be present. There seemed no loophole of escape 
for her. 

Frederick and Vivian were standing by one of 
the lace-draped windows as she entered ; his hand- 
some face was bent over her, and h^ was talking to 
her in so low a tone Doris could not catch the 
words he uttered. 

What was he saying to her that brought that 
lovely flush to Vivian’s cheeks and the bright light 
to her eyes? Was he complimenting her on her 
beauty? Was he, who was bound to another by 


A Tortured Heart. 


'43 

every tie that Heaven holds sacred — daring to 
speak to her of — love? 

The banker and his wife watched them, and 
nodded and smiled to each other. Gwendolin and 
Isabel sat at the piano discussing some pieces of 
music, and Beatrix sat curled up in an arm-chair 
watching the anguished face of her mother’s young 
companion with much curiosity. 

“ Dear me, what a tragical expression !” thought 
Trixy, shuddering. “ How she watches my brother 
and Vivian, and — can it be possible? — there are 
tears in her eyes. Poor girl ! why is she so 
unhappy ? I wonder if mamma has been scolding 
her or threatening to discharge her.” 

All unconscious of this intense scrutiny, Doris 
still sat watching the two, standing by the moon- 
lit window. 

“ How beautiful Vivian is !” thought Doris, sick 
at heart. “ No wonder he regrets that on the 
impulse of the moment he married me instead of 
Vivian, the beauty. Ah, who could resist her? 
Was she not the very queen of love?” 

Women have suffered much and will suffer 
again; they have endured the pangs of death with 
a smile; they have listened to words which were 
their death warrant, and have answered with a 
bright laugh ; they have stood still, firm and undis- 


144 


Parted at the Altar. 


mayed, while the sharpest sword has pierced their 
hearts ; but perhaps no woman ever suffered more 
keenly than Doris as she sat watching Frederick 
Thornton and Vivian. She saw him offer Vivian 
his arm, and together they stepped from the long 
French window out on to the porch, and down into 
the rose garden beyond. 

How tenderly he had drawn the light scarf over 
Vivian’s shoulders, fearful lest the night wind 
should blow upon her too roughly. 

Oh, how Doris longed to follow them! — follow 
and confront them in the path, crying out: “ He is 
mine ! Do not take him from me ! You have 
every blessing the world holds dear, while I have 
only him ! I am alone in the world but for him ! 
Send him from you ! Do not smile upon him ! 
And Heaven may let his estranged heart drift 
back to me. I alone have the right to his love !” 

She rose from her seat with that wild, rash 
intention ; then she remembered where she was. 

“ What is the matter, Miss Carlisle ?” said 
Frederick’s mother. “ There is a look in your eyes 
which startles me. Are you tired ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Doris, faintly. 

“Then you had better retire to your own room,” 
said Mrs. Thornton. 

Doris gladly availed Herself of this permission. 


A Tortured Heart. 


H5 


Her window looked out on the rose garden and 
the fountain. She could watch them unobserved. 
When she reached her room and stole breathlessly 
to the window, she found they were not there. 
They must have passed to some other portion of 
the gr 

Poor Doris stood by the window, her hands 
closely locked together, the bitter tears falling from 
her eyes. She had had her heart’s desire. She had 
looked upon Frederick Thornton's face again. She 
had heard his voice. For this she had borne the 
almost intolerable restraint of her disguise, and had 
dared enter his home. She had believed that look- 
ing upon his face just once more would still and 
calm the fever that was burning her heart away. 
She believed after that the terrible pain of longing 
would die away. 

Instead of that, it was redoubled ; it was intensi- 
fied a thousand times. That first glance at her hus- 
band’s handsome, laughing face had roused her love 
into full and active life again. 

She had said to herself she would look at him just 
once, and go away. Was she ready to go now ? 
Oh, no, no ! — a thousand times no ! 

What should she do, then? Live on in this way 
beneath his mother’s roof, a paid companion, or 
should she go and seek her husband, when the house 


146 


Parted at the Altar . 


was still and dark, and beg of him to tell her why 
he had married her and spoiled her life if he meant 
to desert her ? 

She would tell him the cruel rumors that they 
were circulating — that beautiful Vivian was his 
sweetheart, and that he was soon to marry her — and 
beg him to refute those stories, for it could never 
be true while she, his wife, lived. He had deserted 
her, it was true, but for all that she was his wedded 
wife. No act of man’s could ever part the two 
whom God himself had joined together by the 
solemn ties of marriage. She would tell him that. 

The long hours dragged themselves slowly by as 
she sat at the moonlit window. At length the house 
was still. Darkness wrapped it in a mantle of 
gloom. The midnight hour sounded from some far- 
off belfry. 

Doris rose to her feet, glided to her chamber 
door, and softly opened it, stepping out into the 
corridor. 

“May Heaven help me!” she moaned. “This 
action is the turning point of my life.” 

Then she walked swiftly down the dark corridor 
without one glance behind her. 



CHAPTER XVI. 

‘‘ONLY KEEP MY SECRET.” 

Stealthily as a shadow Doris flitted out into the 
dimly lighted corridor. Her face flushed, her hands 
burned, her heart beat wildly, her brain seemed on 
fire. She must know the truth. She could bear 
sorrow and this cruel despair no longer. She must 
know the worst. 

Her slippered feet made no sound on the thick, 
velvet carpet as she hurried along. Suddenly a 
hand was laid on her shoulder, and the voice of 
Beatrix Thornton exclaimed in astonishment: 

“ Why, Miss Carlisle, what are you doing here so 
late?” * 

And as she spoke, Trixy threw open the library 
door before which they stood, and a flood of light 
streamed out upon Doris’s white, startled face. 

Trixy ’s question had been so abrupt it almost 
took her breath away; but she recovered something 
like composure almost the next moment, however. 

[147] 



148 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ I was restless ; I could not sleep ; so I came 
down to the library for a book/’ she faltered. She 
did not add that she knew it was Frederick Thorn- 
ton’s custom to spend long hours here after the fam- 
ily had retired, and she expected to find him here 
to-night. 

“ That is my case exactly,” laughed Trixy. 
“ Come in, and I will help you select a good book.” 

Trembling with suppressed excitement, Doris 
followed her into the library, casting her eyes 
eagerly about the room as she crossed the threshold. 
She saw that he whom she was in search of was not 
there. 

“You should not sit up reading and loose your 
beauty sleep to-night, above all other nights, for to- 
morrow night is our ball, you know. Some of the 
handsomest young gentlemen in New York will be 
present. Take care some of them do not carry 
away your heart, Miss Carlisle. If I were a hand- 
some young man, instead of a girl, I should fall 
straightway in love with you. Why, what are you 
blushing so for?” cried Trixy. “ Don’t you like to 
talk about love and lovers ?” 

“ No,” replied Doris, in a low, distressed voice, 
tears filling her deep blue eyes. “ If you please, 
Trixy, I’d rather not talk of such things.” 

“ You are certainly an odd girl,” laughed Trixy, 


“ Only Keep My Secret. 


149 


heartily. “ Why, do you know, all the handsome 
young gentlemen hereabouts have fallen deeply in 
love with you, and have just been besieging both 
Isabel and Gwendolin for an introduction to you ? 
Every one takes you for a guest of the house, instead 
of mamma’s companion.” 

No laughing rejoinder came from Doris’s lips. 
There was an anxious look in her eyes. Ah ! this, 
then, accounted for the growing coldness with 
which the two sisters greeted her. 

“ You do not seem enough interested to even ask 
who they are,” said Trixy, disappointedly. 

How little she knew that the girl’s heart and soul 
were bound up in her own handsome brother Fred- 
erick. 

Ah, how poor Doris’s heart longed for sympathy 
and consolation. Oh, if she only dared tell Beatrix 
Thornton the great hidden sorrow that seemed 
eating her heart away ! She felt that she must 
unburden her heart to some one, or it must surely 
break. 

“Trixy,” she said, faintly, locking and unlocking 
her little hands nervously, “ I could never love any 
one in this world again. I loved once. It was the 
sweetest, yet the most bitter experience of my life. 
The one who vowed always to love me, cruelly cast 
me from him. Yet, I love him still with all my 


Parted at the Altar . 


J50 

heart. Do not talk to me of love or lovers, Trixy. 
I cannot bear it. The world will never hold but 
one face for me ; and that is the face of him who is 
lost to me forever." 

“ Oh, how delightfully romantic !" cried Beatrix. 
“ I said to myself over and over again that there 
was some mystery in your life. I have seen such 
strange shadows in your eyes ; and your voice often 
has the sound of tears in it. 

“ I do wish I could help you in some way," said 
Beatrix, thoughtfully. “ I’d give the world to set 
the matter straight for you. What’s his name and 
where does he live?" 

“ I cannot tell you," faltered Doris, catching her 
breath with a little dry sob. 

“ Oh, dear! Then I do not see how I can help 
you," cried Trixy. 

“ You cannot,’’ replied Doris. “ Only keep my 
secret for me." 

“ I will," answered Beatrix, earnestly. 

And as they parted Trixy resolved in her own 
mind to bring this truant lover back to Doris ; but 
the first and most important step was to discover 
his name. 

While she stood in the doorway of the library, 
by a sudden impulse Doris turned and glided back 
to her side. 


“ Only Keep My Secret . 


“ Every one is so cold and cruel to me. I think I 
should die, if I were to lose your friendship, 
Beatrix, ’’ she said, pantingly. 

“You will never die, then, if you wait for that 
event to transpire,” laughed Trixy. “ When I like 
a person I like them for all time. 1 never could 
pretend a friendship I did not feel. Why, the first 
moment I saw you I felt strangely attracted toward 
you, I could not tell why.” 

She wondered why Doris caught her hands in her 
own and kissed them so passionately, while burning 
tears fell from her eyes. 

Poor Doris! If she had only confided in Beatrix 
— reckless, impulsive, warm-hearted Bee — it might 
have been better for her. 

“ Beatrix,” she whispered, wistfully, “ no matter 
what you might hear of me in the future — no matter 
what fate might tempt me to do — promise me, Bee, 
you of all the world will believe in me; you will 
not lose your faith in me.” Oh, how hollow and 
unnatural the sweet voice sounded! “There are 
pitiful secrets in many lives,” she went on, “ that 
drive those who are forced to keep them locked in 
their breasts, to the very verge of madness in their 
woe. If there is any pity in your heart for me, 
Beatrix, pray for me. My feet are on the edge of a 
terrible precipice.” 


152 


Parted at the Altar. 


In after years Beatrix Thornton, in recalling that 
incident, never forgot the haunted look of despair 
that crossed poor, hapless Doris’s face as the words 
broke from her lips in a piteous cry. 

“ I will see Frederick to-morrow,” thought Doris, 
as she hurried back to her own room. 

But when the morrow came there was so much 
going on at the villa she could find no opportunity. 
A dozen times or more Frederick Thornton passed 
the slight girlish figure with the dark face and the 
haunting blue eyes, with a careless nod, a smile, or 
a pleasant word. He did not look closely at her, or 
he would have observed that she clutched her little 
hands tightly over her heart, and swayed slightly 
from side to side, as though she were about to faint. 

That afternoon there was a long and anxious con- 
sultation between Mrs. Thornton and her two 
daughters as to the propriety of allowing Miss 
Carlisle — the paid companion — to attend the ball. 

“She has worked so hard for it,” said Mrs. Thorn- 
ton, “ 1 do not see how we can refuse. She will 
naturally expect it.” 

“ No matter what she expects, mamma,” returned 
Gwendolin, flushing angrily. “We are not obliged 
to consult her wishes. Why, with a face like hers 
she would be the belle of the ball. It is not once in 


“ Only Keep My Seer ell' 


153 


a lifetime one comes across such a startling face — 
so rare in style, so perfect in contour.” 

“If mamma cares to see a paid companion out- 
shine her own daughters, she will allow her to be 
present; if she studies our interest, she will decline,” 
cut in Isabel. “ There is no denying the fact that 
she would eclipse us if we were foolish enough to 
allow her to appear. All of my gentlemen acquaint- 
ances are beginning to rave over her already. I 
wish to the bottom of my heart that girl had never 
entered this house. I fear she will bring trouble in 
the end.” 

A little later Doris entered the boudoir. Mrs. 
Thornton turned to her with a forced smile. 

“ You do not know how sorry we are ; there will 
be such a crowd at the ball I find it impossible to 
ask you, Miss Carlisle.” 

“ I did not expect it,” said Doris, quietly ; but for 
the first time she felt like rebelling bitterly against 
her fate — against the lot that condemned her to 
obscurity where she should have shone. 

Her handsome young husband would be there ; 
so would Vivian. Ah ! if she could but have sat in 
the ball-room and watched them — could have kept 
them apart by any strategy. 

Doris was in her room when the carriages com- 
menced to roll up to the broad piazza and deposit 


154 


Parted at the Altar. 


their loads of youth and beauty. A ball at Thorn- 
ton villa was always a success, the rooms were so 
superb, long and lofty. What would have been a 
crowd in other places was only a pleasant number 
there ; and this ball promised to be one of the best 
given. 

Doris told herself at first that she would remain 
in her own room while the grand ball was in pro- 
gress ; then the great curiosity to see how Vivian 
Courtney looked, and to see, if possible, if she 
danced with Frederick Thornton, urged her to go 
down. 

With her heart in a whirl, Doris stole down the 
broad stairway to the corridor below, where she 
would have a good view of the ball-room beyond, 
being herself unseen. How her heart throbbed and 
her face flushed as she listened to the music, as she 
took up her position behind a marble Clytie which 
stood behind a pedestal of blush-red roses. The 
grand ball room, the reception room, the drawing 
rooms and parlors were thronged with a gay and 
brilliant assemblage. Ah, what a picture it made ! 
— beautiful faces, flashing jewels, the gleam of satin 
and silks, tall men and fair-faced women ! How the 
light fell on them ! how the warm, perfumed air 
stirred gently as they passed ! 

Suddenly the air seemed to stifle Doris. Passing 


“ Only Keep My Secret. 


*55 


so near her that she could have put out her hand and 
touched them from her place of concealment, she 
beheld Frederick Thornton and Vivian — Vivian 
radiant in white lace and blush-roses, leaning upon 
his arm. He was escorting her to the ball room. 

‘‘You will remember, Vivian,” she heard him say, 
as he bent his dark, handsome head nearer the 
beauty, “ you are to save most of the waltzes for 
me; promise me beforehand.” 

“ That would be unfair,” she declared. 

“ It would be just and kind,” he answered, eagerly. 
“ I could not endure to see any one else waltzing 
with you, dear ; I should be tempted to take you 
from him.” 

The next instant there was a loud crash. The 
marble Clytie had fallen from the pedestal to the 
floor ; the crimson roses that had been twined about 
it were scattered in all directions, and amid the 
debris of roses lay a young girl. 

“ Why, it is Miss Carlisle, your mother’s compan- 
ion!” cried Vivian, in dismay. “ Look, she has 
fainted.” 

“ Step into the drawing-room while I take her up 
to mother’s apartments,” he said to Vivian; and 
without waiting to summon a servant, he raised the 
slight figure in his strong arms and bore her rapidly 
up the broad stairway. 


5 ^ 


Parted at the Altar . 


Then for the first time — in the bright, glowing 
light of the chandeliers — he looked curiously down 
into the dark, dimpled face lying against his arm — 
looked — then came to a sudden halt, a cold perspira- 
tion starting out in great beads on his forehead. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE PANGS OF JEALOUSY. 

Frederick Thornton gazed with painful intensity 
into the girl’s beautiful face. 

“ Just such a face has haunted me in my dreams,” 
he muttered, hoarsely. “ I have a dim recollection 
of having seen such a face before, but where I can- 
not imagine. Since that accident, which nearly 
cost me my life, there seem to be strange leaks in 
my brain. 

“ It must be only fancy that I have seen this 
girl before. How strangely my heart thrilled as I 
touched her hand, like an electric shock. She is a 
beautiful little creature. If my heart were not 
already Vivian’s, I — I — should be in danger of 
losing it. My mother’s young companion is cer- 
tainly charming.” 


The Pangs of Jealousy . 


157 


He laid his lovely burden down upon the velvet 
divan in his mother’s boudoir, and rang the bell 
for one of the servants. 

“ Miss Carlisle has fainted, Patty,” he said to the 
maid who soon made her appearance in answer to 
his summons. “ I will leave her in your charge.” 

He had scarcely closed the door behind him ere 
Doris’s blue eyes fluttered open. 

“ Leave me, Patty,” she cried, as she raised her 
eyes to the anxious face bending over her. “ You 
can do nothing for me. Nothing.” 

And when she was left alone, she turned her face 
to the wall with moans piteous to hear. 

It never occurred to her to inquire how she 
came there. 

She quite believed one of the servants had 
brought her here when they found her lying in a 
a dead faint in the corridor below. 

The sweet, joyous strains of the dance music and 
gay laughter floated up to her as she lay there, with 
her face buried in the pillow. Should she lie there 
in such wretched abandon while Vivian, the beauty, 
and Frederick danced and laughed the hours away 
so gayly down below in the rose-embowered ball- 
room ? 

No, no ; she could not. It would drive her mad. 

Silently Doris rose from the divan and crept 


58 


Parted at the Altar . 


down into the corridor again. As she passed the 
conservatory, glancing in, she saw the two for 
whom she was searching standing by the fountain. 

“ Should she turn away, or walk in and face 
them ?” Doris asked herself. 

She could not ; she would not bear it. She was 
deadly sick and faint with the bitterest pain of 
jealousy that could burn or stab a human heart. 
She could not endure to see Frederick Thornton 
bend his handsome head over Vivian. 

He was hers — her husband — not Vivian’s. It 
was hard and cruel. Her face flushed hotly, and 
her lips quivered. 

She felt that she must cry out to them, that she 
must say : 

“ Oh, Frederick, my love, leave her and come 
and comfort me, or I shall go mad !” 

Should she cross over to Vivian’s side, and cry 
out, bitterly : 

“ He is not yours ! Do not look at him or smile 
at him ! Cease to try to win him ! He is mine, 
not yours ! He can never be yours, for he has 
married me !” 

The impulse was so strong to utter the words 
that Doris bit her lips until the pain became insup- 
portable. 

She saw on the face of her lovely rival a look 


The Pangs of Jealousy. 


159 


Vivian’s face had never worn before. What was 
he saying to her that brought those blushes to 
her cheeks and the glad, swift smile into her daz- 
zling dark eyes ? Dare he — who was not free to 
woo and win Vivian — dare he breathe to her one 
word of love? 

Doris knew that she ought to go ; that it was an 
intrusion on her part to remain, but she could not 
tear herself away. The blood was boiling in her 
veins, her heart was beating fast. 

At that moment a waltz struck up again, and with 
a smile Frederick drew Vivian’s little gloved hand 
through his arm and led her back to the ball-room 
by another door. 

And Doris crept close to a great branching mag- 
nolia near the entrance and watched them. Vivian 
seemed to float through the mazes of the graceful 
waltz like a veritable fairy. 

Doris did not take her eyes from her husband and 
Vivian, her beautiful rival, no matter in what part 
of the ball-room they happened to be. 

She saw Frederick hold close to his heart his fair 
partner, and it seemed to Doris’s distorted imagina- 
tion that he held her more closely than the occasion 
demanded. 

At last — oh ! deliverance from torture ! — the 
music ceased ; the waltz was over, Frederick offered 


i6o 


Parted at the Altar. 


Vivian his arm then, and they promenaded around 
the room. 

“ I should go away from here,” muttered Doris, 
as she watched them. “ Ah ! my curse is that I love 
him. I could not live away from him. I love him 
with the bitterest love — a thousand times more cruel 
than hate.” 

While she stood there Mrs. Thornton approached. 
She saw Doris and stopped short. The pallor on 
the girl’s face startled her. 

“You do not look well, Miss Carlisle,” she said, 
gently. “ Had you not better go into the grounds 
and walk awhile in the cool air, or go up to your 
room and rest? I shall not need you any more 
to-night ; you look tired.” 

Then Mrs. Thornton caught sight of her son and 
Vivian. She turned to Doris with a pleased smile. 

“ What a handsome couple they make,” she said, 
— “ my son and Vivian — do they not, Miss Carlisle ?” 

Doris tried to murmur some answer, but her 
voice died away on her white lips. 

“ The dearest wish of my heart will be gratified 
when I see them married,” Mrs. Thornton went on. 

A sudden impulse, an irresistible, mad longing, 
urged her to turn to Frederick’s mother, and say : 
“ He can never marry that proud beauty ; he is 



doris in her new Disouisii. — See Chapter X. 





The Pangs of Jealousy . 


1 6 1 


already married. I am his wife.” But this was 
neither the time nor the place for such revelation. 

Without waiting for Doris to reply, Mrs. Thorn- 
ton moved on, and Doris resumed her patient watch 
again. 

Some one had claimed Vivian for a quadrille, and 
Doris noticed with bitter pain that Frederick did 
not attempt to seek another partner. He stood 
quite alone where she had left him. Of what was 
he thinking that he looked so dreamily at the pro- 
gramme he held ! Was he thinking of that other 
ball, and the young girl who had accompanied him 
there, to her bitter cost? Was he thinking of the 
pitiful sequel that had followed on the heels of it ? 
Doris imagined he was, and again that old perplex- 
ing question recurred to her: Why had he wedded 
her, if he meant to desert her ? Would any one, look- 
ing into his dark, handsome face, believe he could 
be guilty of so cruelly deserting the bride he had 
married, almost at the very altar ? She remembered 
the words of the great poet, who has said : 

“ That one may smile, and smile, and be villain.” 

Did he have no thought of the young heart he 
had broken, the young life he had blasted ? 

“ If he could have but loved her, how different life 
might have been for her,” she told herself. “ He 


162 


Parted at the Altar. 


does not love me ; he cares only for Vivian,” she 
murmured. “If I died to-morrow,” she cried, with 
a bitter moan, “who would grieve for me? Not 
Frederick Thornton. If he heard I was dead, it 
would be a great relief to him. He could look up 
calmly, and say : ‘ She is out of my way forever.’ 

If he did not say it, that is the thought that would 
fit through his mind. 

“ God forgive me ! I do not want to be wicked, 
but I think Heaven has laid a great curse upon my 
life. I am cursed by fate. I was so lonely, my 
childhood and girlhood were so unhappy ; my one 
prayer to Heaven was to send me some one who 
would love me. I had no gentle mother, no loving 
sister, no kind father — no kindred on the great, 
wide, cruel earth. I was so desolate I craved love 
— only love — and it has been denied me. What is 
there left to live for? He will never, never love 
me!” 

As she watched, she saw Frederick cross to where 
Vivian sat, and bend over her a moment. Then she 
rose, took his arm, and together they passed out of 
the ball-room into the moonlit, rose-bordered 
terrace. 

The poor wretched young wife stood motionless 
beside the crimson clove carnations, her hands 


The Pangs of Jealousy . 163 

pressed tightly over her heart. Should she follow 
them or not ? 

The temptation was more than she could resist. 
Silently as a shadow Doris stole after them, gaining 
the terrace by another door. They had wandered 
down the beach- walk to the river’s brink. Doris 
could see the glimmer of Vivian’s white dress 
through the trees as the patches of moonlight fell 
upon it. There was such a deep silence among the 
trees, as she went swiftly along, that it seemed to 
Doris that they were waiting, silent, motionless, for 
the pitiful scene which was to follow. Sometimes 
the low, musical laughter of Vivian reached her, 
and then the rich ring of her husband’s voice would 
sound cheerily through the still, white starlight ; and 
all the time she, his wife, was slowly threading her 
way after him like the shadow of fate. 

Doris had a dim idea that what she was doing 
was a wrong, undignified, ungenerous action ; but 
her great, hopeless, pitiful love, and the cruel smart 
•of jealousy, more bitter to bear than the pangs 
of death, outweighed every other feeling. 

“ I shall see for myself whether it is true or not 
that he is Vivian’s lover, that he contemplates 
marrying her.” 

She had a faint remembrance of reading once of 
a man who had applied to the law to free him from 


164 


Parted at the Altar . 


his wife. What the cause was she did not recollect ; 
and it seemed strange t.o Doris, at the time, that the 
law freed him ; that the law of man could set at 
defiance the law of God, that those joined together 
in holy wedlock should never be put asunder. 

Had Frederick Thornton availed himself of any 
such means to free himself from her that he might 
wed Vivian, whom he loved ? 

“ If it is so, let me hear it from his own lips,” she 
murmured, hoarsely ; better that he should slay her 
with the truth at once than that she should die by 
this most slow and cruel torture. 

Silently Doris drew near the two standing on the 
sands together, all unconscious of her presence, and 
the tragedy which was to follow. Only a group of 
trees separated her from them, but Doris crept still 
closer, with bated breath and a heart on fire. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

DORIS AND FREDERICK MEET. 

Nearer, still nearer, crept the little dark figure to 
the two who stood by the river’s brink, gazing far 
out on the moonlit waves. 


Doris a?id Frederick Meet . 


165 

What were they saying ? Was Frederick telling 
his beautiful companion the story of that other ball, 
and the fatal marriage that had resulted from it? 

Was he saying that, on the impulse of the moment, 
he had encumbered himself with a wife he did not 
love? No, no; he had not told her yet; for, crouch- 
ing there in the dense shadow, she heard Vivian say : 

“There seems to be some secret you are trying 
to keep back from me, Frederick. You are 
changed of late ; how, or why, I cannot tell. Some- 
times, when I am talking to you, you do not hear 
me. Where are your thoughts — of whom are you 
thinking? I ask myself. If I thought you cared for 
any one else, Frederick, I — ” 

The sentence never was finished. Frederick 
Thornton bent his dark, handsome face with a light, 
happy, careless laugh. 

“ My dear Vivian,” he cried, “ is it possible you 
are growing jealous ?” In the next instant he had 
changed his light, bantering tone. “ It is all your 
imagination about the change in me, as you call it. 
When you see me distrait, it is when I am trying to 
recall some vague thought that seems to have 
escaped my mind, and which is ever eluding my 
memory. As for caring for any one else — ah, no, 
Vivian, you are my first and only love. I have 
never cared for any one but you. I have never 


Parted at the Altar. 


1 66 


held any one else’s hands clasped in mine as I 
am holding yours now. f have never breathed one 
word — nay — never given one thought to another.” 

Was it a moan from human lips that startled 
them, or only the wind sighing through the trees, 
dying away in a low wail over the water? The 
words Doris had heard had driven her mad. Oh, 
God, how could he utter words as false as these ? 
How dared he ? It was a wonder that the rod of 
the angels did not strike him dead. 

With a bitter cry Doris sprang from her place of 
concealment and confronted him. There was a 
shriek from Vivian, and a cry of surprise from Fred- 
erick. 

“ Miss Carlisle !” they both echoed in a breath. 

“ No — not — Miss Carlisle !” Doris panted, with 
the most broken-hearted cry that ever fell from human 
lips — “ not Miss Carlisle, but Doris Thornton, the 
wretched, unhappy wife of this man who dares to 
speak to you of love, Vivian Courtney ! — the 
unhappy bride whom Frederick Thornton wedded, 
and then deserted at the very altar almost !” 

Another shriek fell from Vivian’s lips. Frederick 
Thornton stood still in the path like one turned to 
stone. Speech and action seemed suddenly to have 
left him.* He could not have moved a muscle, ut- 


Doris and Frederick Meet * 


167 


tered one word if his life had depended upon it; the 
shock he had received was so terrible — so appalling. 

“ It is false ! Who are you who dare utter such 
words? Why do you not deny it, Frederick?” 
screamed Vivian, turning to him, and eagerly 
scanning his pale, handsome face in the white, 
cold moonlight. 

“ Because he dare not, in the presence of God and 
the listening angels, who witnessed our marriage,” 
replied Doris, solemnly, lifting her white right 
hand to the star-gemmed heavens, and answering 
Vivian’s last question first. “ As to who I am, your 
woman’s penetration might have told you that I am 
the unhappy girl whom you once knew as Doris 
Brandon, in those old days at Madame Delmar’s 
seminary.” 

u You Doris Brandon ! Why, you are certainly 
mad !” exclaimed Vivian Courtney, hoarsely. 

“ She was fair of face, and hair like golden sunshine. 
You are dark — ” 

“ Hush ! Listen to me for but one moment, and 
I will explain. Let Frederick Thornton deny me, 
his deserted bride, then, if he will. In the register 
of the old gray stone church where that weird, 
fatal midnight marriage was solemnized, you will 
find our names signed. There you will find proof. 

“ You yourself, Vivian, know how and where I 


i68 


Parted at the Altar . 


first met Frederick Thornton. It was a dark and 
bitter hour for me in which you put that note into 
my hands on the day you were leaving the semin- 
ary, and bade me wait for the young man who 
would come to the old south gate at four that 
afternoon, and place it in his hands.” 

Breathless with excitement, Vivian sprang 
forward. 

“ It is all false !” she cried, stormily. “ Some 
cruel trick to frighten me !” she went on, vehe- 
mently. 

Yet, for all that, she noted with dim horror that 
Frederick did not contradict the horrible assertion. 

In a few brief words Doris had panted out her 
pitiful story of her meeting with Frederick that 
day, and of the pleasant meetings and rambles 
through the summer wood that followed. How he 
had persuaded her to steal out of the seminary 
and go to the grand ball, and the ill-starred, hasty 
marriage that had resulted from it. How he had 
taken her to Baltimore, and leaving her at the hotel, 
had then and there heartlessly and cruelly deserted 
her. Of her search for a situation as companion; 
and of the temptation to enter her husband’s home 
and look once more upon his face that had tempted 
her to disguise herself and come to his mother. 

As he listened, like a shock the past returned to 


Doris and Frederick Meet. 


169 


Frederick Thornton. He tried to speak, but the 
words died away on his lips, making no sound. 
The veins stood out like cords on his forehead, and 
great drops of perspiration stood out in heavy 
beads on his white face. 

Like a flash he remembered all now ; — the mar- 
riage ; leaving Doris, his young bride, at the 
hotel, and sauntering out into the street to smoke a 
cigar while she rested ; and the accident which 
had followed that had nearly cost him his life, and 
which, when he recovered, had left such a strange 
blank in his mind as to some event or events that 
had transpired just prior to it, which he had ever 
since been vainly endeavoring to call to mind. Oh ! 
and this was it! No wonder he was struck dumb 
with horror as his brain took in the terrible truth. 

“ Is it true, Frederick?” cried out Vivian, sharply. 
“ Oh, my love ! my love ! tell me that it is not 
true, or I shall go mad.” 

“ It is true, Vivian,” he murmured, hoarsely ; 
and it almost seemed to him another voice had 
spoken, it .seemed so strange and unnatural. “ I 
married her, as she says. She is my wife.” 

He tried to say more, but the words refused to 
leave his lips. He was like a man bewildered — 
stunned by a swift, terrible, unexpected blow . 

“ I see it all now,” screamed Vivian, with a wild, 


170 


Parted at the Altar . 


eldritch, shrill laugh that made both of her 
listeners’ blood turn cold. “ It was a daring scheme 
for a husband — a most daring plot to win my love 
from me by stealth,” she went on, with stinging 
sarcasm. “ I should never have intrusted my note to 
you. A beggar like yourself — a nameless nobody — 
a waif on Madame Delmar’s charity — I might have 
known would manoeuvre for a wealthy husband, 
just as you have done.” 

She sprang nearer to Doris, white with wrath, 
her eyes fairly blazing as they rested on the girl 
who had come between her and Frederick Thorn- 
ton’s love. 

“ Let it be one bitter drop of disappointment in 
your cup of triumph to know that the man you have 
so cunningly entrapped does not nor never will 
love you, for his heart is mine. Do you hear, Doris 
Brandon ? His heart is mine !” 

Her eyes glittered, her cheeks and lips flushed 
scarlet with excitement. 

Frederick Thornton’s presence alone saved her 
from raising her clenched, jeweled hand and striking 
Doris down at her feet. 

Frederick Thornton himself seemed incapable of 
action. To him Doris turned, holding up her little 
hands as if to ward off Vivian’s scathing accusations. 

“ Frederick,” she cried out, “ oh, believe me, all 


Doris and Frederick Meet, 


I7i 

that she accuses me of is false — all terribly false. I 
I — would have died sooner than — than try to entrap 
you into — marrying me.” 

There was a piteous quiver in the sweet, childish 
voice, and the soft blue, appealing eyes raised to 
Frederick Thornton’s pale, disturbed, handsome 
face were drowned in tears. He would have inter- 
rupted her, but she held up her hand with a quick 
gesture. 

“ Hear me out,” she cried. “ I have only a few 
words more to say, but they must be said to you 
alone, Frederick. I could not speak before her.” 

Vivian expected that Frederick would put out his 
hand to her, crying out that she might remain and 
hear all that was to be said. But he did not ; and 
with a derisive, sneering laugh, she gathered up her 
silken skirts in her dainty hand and fairly flew up 
the rose-bordered path to the house, and up to Mrs. 
Thornton’s boudoir, to tell her the horrible story. 

It was the most awkward moment of Frederick 
Thornton’s life when he found himself standing 
alone face to face with Doris. 

He meant to tell her that he had never willfully 
deserted her, and of the frightful accident which 
had stricken him down, separating him in so strange 
a manner from his watching, waiting bride, when 


Parted at the Altar. 


172 


she had ceased speaking. First, he must hear what 
she had to say to him. 

‘‘Oh, Mr. Thornton — Frederick!” she faltered, 
piteously, “ you must believe that I never — never 
— thought of marrying you ten minutes before you 
spoke of it — proposed it, or I shall die here at your 
feet, or go mad with very shame. I thought you 
wished me to marry you — oh, Heaven pity me ! — I 
thought you wished me to marry you because you 
loved me just as dearly as I had learned to love 
you ; yes, I believed that with all my heart.” 

The words she had uttered had fallen upon Fred- 
erick Thornton like a thunderbolt; they were a 
startling revelation to him. He looked into the 
beautiful, childish face aghast. Doris loved him ! — 
Doris whom he had married in a moment of impulse, 
to save her from being cast adrift on the cold, 
pitiless world, she feared so much. 

He had considered her but a beautiful, willful, 
capricious child. He was amazed to hear from her 
lips that revelation she had uttered in her intense 
excitement — she loved him. 

“ Oh, if you had but left me to die at the ball,” she 
moaned, “ for it was then that my heart went out to 
you. Oh, if I had but known you did not love me, 
I would have died sooner than have gone to the 
altar with you. I never thought that lips could 


Doris and Frederick Meet . 


173 


breathe vows the heart was far from feeling. 
Heaven forgive you for pledging yourself at the 
altar to love me, when you knew it was false— all 
false, for your heart was as far from mine as the sky 
is from the earth. You loved another.” 

“ Doris, poor little Doris, listen to me !” he cried, 
eagerly ; but she held up that little hand again 
enjoining silence. 

“Those solemn vows bind us to each other until 
the death of one sets the other free. I am going to 
give you back your freedom which you bartered 
away. I will not spoil your life and Vivian’s.” 

She turned and attempted to pass him, but he put 
out his hand and caught the slender, girlish figure. 

“ How could you set me free, Doris ?” he 
demanded. “ What are you intending to do, my 
poor child ?” 

“ I am going out into the bitterness of death !” she 
sobbed, freeing herself, with a shudder, from his 
detaining clasp. “ I am going to set you free. 
When you remember that, you will not quite hate 
me.” 

And with the swiftness of a storm-driven swallow, 
she sprang from his grasp down the path, and on to 
the dark flowing river that lay but a few rods 
beyond. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

A DESPAIRING GIRL. 

The whole affair had been so sudden, the shock 
which had followed Doris’s startling revelation so 
terrible, that for an instant Frederick Thornton was 
dazed ; and in that instant, the little figure had 
eluded his grasp, and with the fleetness of a tempest- 
tossed swallow, flew down the path that led to the 
river. 

' “ Doris!” he called out, sharply. “Come back! 

What would you do ?” 

Only a heart-broken sob floated back to him. 

The words she had uttered came to his memory 
with awful horror : 

“ Only death could break the bonds that bind you 
to me, Mr. Thornton. I will not come between you 
and Vivian. I am going to set you free.” 

Surely poor, beautiful little Doris did not intend 
to court death in the dark, rapid river. The 
thought brought him to his senses as nothing else 
[174] 



A Despairing Girl. 


175 


could have done, and with fleet footsteps he 
followed that flying. figure, calling upon her to stop. 

But if Doris heard those passionate cnes she did 
not heed them. Pausing an instant on the brink of 
the moonlit water, she held up her white hands to 
the night-sky. 

“ It was all a cruel mistake,” she murmured, with 
gasping sobs. “ He did not love me. It was Vivian 
whom he loved. He hates me because I came 
between them and parted them, and I couldn’t bear 
that. I must die and set him free. Surely, God 
must pardon me, knowing how bitterly hard my life 
is to bear — 

“ * Mad from life’s history, 

Glad to death’s mystery 
Swift to be hurled, 

Anywhere — anywhere out of the world.’ ” 

Poor Doris ! Her great sorrow had driven her 
mad with despair. With a quivering, piteous cry 
that pierced Frederick Thornton’s heart like an 
arrow, as it floated back to him, little Doris flung 
herself from the rock on which she stood, down into 
the curling waves ; and in an instant they closed 
over her head. 

The next moment Frederick Thornton reached 
the spot. He stood there as if turned to stone, look- 


ij6 


Parted at the Altar. 


ing down into the rippling waters, sparkling under 
the pale light of the moon — the waters that had but 
a moment before closed over that beautiful, dark 
head and childish, despairing face. 

Horror had almost robbed him of his voice, 
deprived him of his strength. With an awful cry 
he staggered back from the brink, and rushed 
toward the house, crying loudly for help, for she had 
not risen again. 

Poor Doris, the fair young bride he had wedded, 
and from whom the hand of fate had parted him, 
almost at the very altar, in so strange a manner, 
lying cold in death, and for his sake. She had not 
given him time to tell her how strangely fate had 
been playing at cross-purposes with them. She 
believed he had willfully, cruelly deserted her, and 
it was this that had driven her to her doom. She 
had sought death ere the startling truth could be 
revealed to her. Oh, the pity, the horror, and the 
cruel shame of it ! 

“ Help ! help !” he cried, hoarsely, wildly rush- 
ing up the broad, marble porch two steps at a time. 
To the servants, who rushed out in answer to their 
young master’s wild cries, he explained in a few 
gasping words what had happened. 

There would be no question of saving her now, 
they told him. They could only get drags, and 


A Despairing Girl. 


t 77 


search for the body. This was quickly done. 
Steady hands bent to the oars. Rigid and still, 
and ghastly white, Frederick Thornton sat in the 
boat beside them, watching it all ; sat like a figure 
wrought in marble ; sat with the ghastly, white, 
despairing face of a man whose thoughts were tor- 
turing him to madness. Every rush of the waves 
that beat against the boat — every stroke of the oars, 
as they struck against the water, seemed to cry out 
to him : 

“ She sought death because she could not live 
without you. How the poor child loved you !” 

The drags were dipped, splashed, and trailed 
through the shimmering water, only to come up 
tangled with weeds and river drift. No set, white, 
childish face, framed in rings of wet hair clinging 
to it — no slender, girlish figure came up with the 
drags from the river’s depths. 

An hour passed in useless search. They were 
obliged at length to abandon it. The swift under- 
current must have carried her away before they had 
reached the spot. 

And all this time the merry ball was going on. 
Music, laughter and dancing made the night air 
echo with revelry, and not one among them knew 
of the tragedy which had taken place so near them. 

Frederick Thornton could not go back to the 


i 7 8 


Parted at the Altar . 


scene of festivity. He could not endure it. Like 
one mad, he paced the river’s brink, gazing with 
horror and remorse too great for words at the fair, 
false, smiling, treacherous waves. 

Suddenly a light, quick, step came hurriedly 
down the path. He. knew before he raised his 
white, haggard, pain-drawn face that it was Vivian. 

“ Have you learned what has happened, Vivian?” 
he asked. “ Poor Doris has flung herself into the 
river. I was powerless to save her, for she never 
rose again. There was not even a ripple to mark 
the spot where she went down. She is drowned. 
Poor pretty Doris ! She did it to set me free. Oh, 
the pity of it, Vivian ; the pity of it !” 

To the last day of his life Frederick Thornton 
never forgot the shock it gave him to hear the tri- 
umphant cry that broke from Vivian’s red lips: 

“Dead, is she, Frederick ? Was there ever such 
a fortunate stroke of fate for you and me? I 
thought I should go mad when I listened to her 
story and heard it confirmed by your lips. And 
now she is out of our path forever !” 

Frederick Thornton recoiled from Vivian in 
horror too great for words. Could it be that he 
had heard aright ? Great Heaven ! had this girl, 
whom he had idolized as little less than an angel, a 
heart of marble, and a breast so dead to human pity 


A Despairing Girl \ 


179 


that she could speak of poor little Doris’s untimely 
death like this ? 

“ Vivian !” he cried, sternly, “ do you realize that 
you are speaking of that poor child’s death as though 
you wer eglad?” 

“ And so I am,” assented Vivian Courtney. “ Are 
not you, Frederick?” 

“ Heaven forbid !” he groaned, shudderingly. “ If 
I could put life into that still heart again and bright- 
ness into those dim eyes, I would suffer a lifetime of 
pain to do it.” 

Vivian came a step nearer to him and laid her 
little white hand — on which his engagement ring 
still sparkled — on his arm. Only a few short hours 
before that touch would have thrilled him to the 
heart’s core. Now he shook it off with a shudder. 

“You have forgotten that, if she had lived, she 
would have come between you and me — and happi- 
ness,” she murmured. 

And the voice that had always sounded like the 
sweetest music to Frederick Thornton’s ears now 
seemed strangely discordant to him, and the vague 
thought drifted across his mind, was it possible he 
had ever loved this girl ? Heretofore he had seen 
only the sweet side of Vivian’s nature. Now she stood 
revealed to him in quite a different light — a vindic- 
tive woman ; one capable of the most desperate, 


i8o 


Parted at the Altar . 


relentless hate ; one who could glory in an innocent 
rival’s death — the loss of a human life — if it removed 
an obstacle from her path. He was amazed — 
cruelly disappointed in Vivian Courtney. 

The chances are, if Vivian had not given utter- 
ance to her real sentiments, the whole course of her 
after life would have been different. A slight inci- 
dent, a word, a look, have often been known to turn 
the mightiest love into abhorrence. Love comes to 
the heart swiftly, and it may take wing just as 
swiftly, and is often but a transient guest. But, 
feeling so sure of Frederick’s love, Vivian went on : 

“ Yes, I am glad Doris has made way with herself. 
How we would have hated her if she had lived to 
spoil our lives. She was always a designing, artful 
minx when she was at school. Of course she pur- 
posely remained until past the hour for the gates 
to be locked, to entrap you into marrying her — the 
crafty — ” 

“ Vivian ! — Miss Courtney ! — remember you are 
speaking of the dead !” exclaimed Frederick Thorn- 
ton, sternly. “ Do not speak another disparaging 
word of that poor child if you would have me 
retain the respect in which 1 have always held you. 
Remember — she was — my — wife.” 

Vivian took a step backward, and looked at his 
pale, angry face. 


A Despairing Girl \ 1 8 1 

“ One would almost imagine that you were as 
much in love with the pretty little beggar as she 
was with you,” she cried; “ and that you had just 
discovered that smoldering love existed in your 
heart when her unexpected taking off awakened it 
into life.” 

She had put the idea into his head, and he caught 
at the thought with strange eagerness. Was the 
great pain at his heart the quivering, mighty throb 
of love ? He covered his face with his hands with 
a deep groan. 

The consciousness of the truth came home to 
Frederick Thornton too late. He loved little Doris, 
the pretty, trembling young bride whom he had 
wedded, and from whom fate had parted him so 
strangely. 

The mighty thrill that had stirred his pulses as 
he saw her kneeling, with her golden head bowed, 
on the cold, hard stones outside of the closed gates, 
crying out she would rather die than face the piti- 
less world — the mighty thrill that had stirred his 
pulses and bade him care for her — instead of pity, 
as he thought it then, was love. Love, too, that had 
prompted him to follow her to-night down to the 
river, to give his life, if need be, to save her. Love 
that bemoaned her loss, and cried out to him that 
his life was ruined and blasted, now that Doris was 


1 82 


Parted at the Altar . 


no more ; and the bitterest drop in his cup of woe 
was the knowledge that Doris loved him so well, 
and that she had died because she could not live 
without him, and had died, too, believing he had 
willfully deserted her. 

Ah ! if she had but known just how that terrible 
affair came about. 

Again Vivian broke in upon his perturbed 
thoughts. 

“You do not speak! You do not attempt to 
deny it !” she cried, shrilly. “ I believe you did 
love the girl, or you would never, never have 
asked her to marry you that night of the ball ; 
and if that be true, I glory in the fact that you are 
parted from her — that she is dead !” 

Great Heaven ! how the cruel words smote him ! 
and in that moment he loathed Vivian more 
intensely than he had ever loved her. 

“ As the case now stands, Vivian,” he said, 
coldly, “ 1 release you from your engagement, 
realizing under what circumstances it was made.” 

“ But, supposing I do not wish to be released,” 
she said, slowly. 

“We can never be anything to each other in the 
future,” he answered, firmly. “ All is over between 
us, Vivian; we must part forever.” 



CHAPTER XX. 

A husband’s fault. 

Mrs. Thornton’s dismay upon hearing the start- 
ling story Vivian related so incoherently to her can 
better be imagined than described. 

She sought out her son at once. He was still 
pacing to and fro under the beeches in the 
garden. 

“Frederick,” she whispered, approaching him 
and taking his cold hands in her own, “you must 
not give way to grief like this. Under the circum 
stances, you are blameless. That accident, and the 
delirious fever which followed it, completely oblit- 
erated all knowledge of your waiting bride from 
your mind. The fault lay with Doris herself. 
When she came here, why did she not tell me all, 
instead of creeping into the house by stealth, and in 
disguise ? Or why did she not confront you, and 
demand to know why you deserted her? Then 
matters could have been righted.” 

[183] 


184 


Parted at the Altar . 


“ She was so young, mother, she did not know 
what to do under the complicated circumstances. 
She believed, of course, that I was false to her,” he 
groaned. 

“ There is another matter of which I wish to 
speak, Frederick,” said his mother, timidly. “ This 
is scarcely the time and place, still it must be said, 
sooner or later, and the * subject may as well be 
gotten over with first as last. 

“You married this girl on the spur of the 
moment, my boy, and even at the time you did not 
love her — you loved Vivian. Believing yourself 
afterward free to woo and win Vivian, you became 
engaged in marriage to her. The wedding day is 
set; she wears your ring upon her finger. You 
cannot bring Doris back ; therefore it is best to keep 
all knowledge of this tragedy from the public, and 
let your marriage with Vivian go on.” 

She was puzzled by the strange look that crossed 
his face, leaving it paler than ever. 

“I will keep this pitiful affair from the world’s 
knowledge for my poor, unhappy Doris’s sake, if 
you think best, mother,” he answered, huskily ; 
“ but as for marrying Vivian now, mother, I cannot. 
Do not urge me. I cannot." 

Mrs. Thornton looked into her son’s white, hand- 
some, stormy face with dismay, not unmixed with 


A Husband' s Fault . 


185 

fear. Was this terrible affair driving him mad? 
Was he losing his reason? He was evincing an 
unaccountable, strange dislike toward Vivian whom 
he had fairly idolized. Surely this was a sign of it. 
Those struggling on the verge of madness usually 
turn against the one they love best — first. 

“ Do not talk about it any more, mother,” he went 
on, huskily. “ I cannot bear it.” 

Every effort was made to find poor Doris’s body, 
but to no avail. 

If she lay beneath the water, the sunlit waves 
kept their own secret well. The disappearance of 
Mrs. Thornton’s companion created no excitement 
whatever. No one missed her, on one took any 
interest to know what had become of her; and thus 
days lengthened into weary months. At last 
society was beginning to wonder why the marriage 
between Vivian Courtney, the heiress, and Frederick 
Thornton, the banker’s son, did not take place. 

Since the night of the ball many had noticed a 
sudden and growing coldness between the lovers. 

No one knew that, seeing Vivian in her true light 
— on that fatal night she had boldly declared her 
hatred of poor, hapless little Doris — the last 
remnant of Frederick Thornton’s love for her had 
been turned into loathing. 

He no longer sought Vivian’s society ; he rather 


Parted at the Altar . 


1 86 


avoided it. Whole hours he spent by the deep, 
dark, treacherous water, his face buried in his 
hands, groaning aloud. It was too late now for 
vain regrets. His heart had gone out to poor little 
Doris too late. 

No one knew how he mourned in secret for the 
bride he had lost so strangely. 

To Vivian Courtney this strange revulsion on the 
part of her lover was maddening. In vain she tried 
to woo him back to his allegiance ; but the golden 
spell of love was broken. He shrank from her. 
The dead coals of the old love were never again to 
be re-kindled in his heart. 

Yet Vivian Courtney would not be discouraged. 
Even to herself she would not admit the alarming 
truth that Frederick Thornton’s heart had grown 
cold to her. 

One afternoon matters came to a crisis. Vivian 
drove up to the villa in her village-cart and called 
for Frederick. 

“ I should like you to ride a little way with me, 
Frederick,” she said. “I have something to say to 
you.” 

Very reluctantly he complied, rather dreading a 
tete-a-tete with the willful beauty, and a shade of 
annoyance crossed his face which she was not slow 
in perceiving. For some distance they rode in 


A Husband' s Fault . 


187 


silence — a silence broken only by the twittering of 
the birds in the trees overhead, or the drowsy hum 
of the bees amid the sweet pink clover. 

At length the silence became irksome to Vivian. 
She clutched the reins tightly with her little, white, 
ungloved hands ; and looking down he noticed that 
she still wore his engagement ring. 

She saw the glance, and a deep flush, followed by 
a quick pallor, spread over her face. 

“ Frederick,” she said, in a low, vibrating voice, 
“it is about this ring I wish to speak to you. Do 
you still mean what you said on the night of the 
ball ?” 

It hurt her pride cruelly to utter those words, 
but she must know. Her love — her whole future — 
was at stake. 

He tried to overcome his embarrassment at the 
question, but it was a failure. He looked greatly 
distressed. He was a thorough gentleman in word 
and deed. How could he tell her that his heart had 
changed toward her since the evening she had 
expressed herself so freely in regard to poor little 
Doris’s death? How he hated the ungracious 
words he must speak ; yet it must be done. He 
must speak plainly to her. The words he must 
utter : “ I have ceased to love you,” seemed to him 


Parted at the Altar . 


1 88 


most unmanly ; yet the sooner they understood 
each other the better it would be for them both. 

In the gentlest words he could command, he told 
her that the engagement they had entered into 
should never have existed, owing to the fact that, at 
that time, he was not free to woo and win any 
young girl's heart, and he begged her to remember 
the accident which had befallen him, followed by 
brain fever, which had obliterated from his mind 
all knowledge of his bride, who awaited his return. 

“No, no, Vivian,” he went on, “ do not consider 
your promise binding, for I do not. You are as free 
as air.”^ 

The words died away on his lips as he saw the 
marble white pallor of the girl’s face. Her eyes 
glowed like purple fires, and her breast heaved con- 
vulsively. 

“You have no heart, or you would not break 
with me !” she sobbed. “ All the world will know 
that I am a victim to the fickleness of a man’s 
love!” she cried. “You did love me once, Fred- 
erick,” she went on, pathetically, “ and you would 
have been mine, but for that girl who came between 
us, and I hate her for it ; yes, hate her in her grave, 
for I believe in one mad moment, as she stood 
before you, pleading her cause that night, your 


A Husband' s Fault 


189 


love turned from me to her. Is it not so ?” she 
panted. 

He was too honorable to deny the truth, and he 
bowed his head in assent. 

Again Vivian laid aside her pride, and turned to 
him. 

"‘Is it too late, now that she is dead, to care — 
for me — again?” she faltered. 

He could not help feeling touched with pity 
and distress for the humiliation it must have cost 
this proud girl to speak such words as these. 

“ If you ever marry I — I shall despise the woman 
who wins your love,” she cried, bitterly ; “ I will be 
her crudest enemy, and yours, till the day I die.” 

“ Calm yourself, Vivian,” he answered, gently, 
taking her burning hands in his; “I shall never 
marry — never.” 

“You will wreck your life and mine for a fool- 
ish vagary,” she cried, bitterly. “ Doris is dead — 
why can you not forget her, Frederick?” she 
cried, with a spasm of pain in her voice. “ Pause 
and think before you give up such a deathless love 
as mine.” 

He shook his head with a sad gesture. 

“ I am grieved, pained to tell you, Vivian,’’ he 
said, “ that it can never be ; the memory of my 
fair young bride comes between us. My heart 


190 


Parted at the Altar . 


has gone out to Doris, and is buried with her in 
her grave.” 

‘‘Shall we turn back?” she asked, in a cold, 
constrained voice, that sounded scarcely human. 

“ Yes,” he answered, gently. 

Not a word was uttered during that long drive 
homeward. Vivian’s face was white as death, but 
with a firm hand she held the reins. 

Before alighting from the vehicle, he held out his 
hand to her : 

“We can at least be friends, Vivian,” he said, 
appealingly. 

She uttered a bitter laugh that was half a sob, 
recoiling from his outstretched hand. 

“ After breaking my heart, and placing me in a 
very sorry light before the public, do not talk of 
being friends with me; do not ask me to touch your 
hand.” 

“ As you think best, Vivian,” he said, humbly. 

Vivian Courtney never saw the green, waving 
fields, the white, pebbled road, and the daisy-starred 
meadows as she drove slowly homeward. Vivian 
was in a whirl of emotion : she was trying to picture 
what life would be without him. 

“ Oh, my love !” she sobbed, “ will you never 
care for me ? Shall I wait for you all my life long ? 
Shall I call, and hear but the echo of my own voice? 


A Husband' s Fault . 


191 

Shall I love you year after year, and be no nearer 
to you than I am now ? Oh, Frederick, if it be in 
the power of woman to win you, I will win you — I 
will devote my life to the task.” 

And then and there she made this vow which 
influenced her future life, and made of it one long 
tragedy. 

She vowed that she would win his love — or no 
other woman should — that her beauty, and the gifts 
nature had lavished upon her, should all be used for 
this one purpose. Even as she had had undying 
love, so she would have undying patience. She 
would never weary; she would bear all his coldness 
with gentleness, but she would win him in the end ; 
it might be long years, but she would win his love, 
or no other woman should. 

Over and over she repeated those words vehe- 
mently to herself, until that one idea was the one 
purpose of her life. The next day society was 
considerably shocked by the announcement that the 
en g a g e ment between handsome Frederick Thornton 
and Vivian Courtney, the beautiful heiress, was 
broken. 

Vivian’s father heard the report confirmed by his 
daughter’s lips, with a face white with rage. 

“ He has gone too far with this matter to draw 
back now, Vivian,” he cried. “ He must — he shall 


192 


Parted at the Altar. 


live up to every letter of his agreement, or he will 
answer to me, your father, for it.” 

In all her life Vivian had never seen her father so 
terribly moved, or worked up into such a terrible 
passion. 

He strode toward the door and flung it open, 
taking something bright and gleaming from his desk 
as he passed it, and thrusting it into his breast- 
pocket 

“ What would you do, father?” cried Vivian, 
springing toward him and catching his arm in the 
wildest alarm. 

“ I am going to see that he marries you this very 
day , according to contract, — or gives me satisfac- 
tion !” he thundered. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

DISOWNED. 

We must now return to Doris and the fatal 
moment in which she plunged madly from the rocks 
down into the swirling water below. 

The contact with the water brought IJoris to her 
senses and the realization that she had no right to 


Disowned \ 


1 93 


take the life God had given her. When she rose to 
the surface, it was in the dark, dense shadows of 
the willows that fringed the bank. 

Clutching the long branches that drooped to the 
water’s edge, Doris succeeded in drawing herself 
into safety. 

“ May God forgive me,” she murmured again, 
falling upon her knees. “ I think for the moment I 
must have been mad — yes, driven mad by my terri- 
ble woe.” 

Kneeling there, she heard Frederick Thornton 
wildly calling upon her name. A low, bitter laugh 
that was half a sob fell from her lips, then she knew 
no more. 

For long hours Doris lay among the daisy 
studded grass in the dense shadow of the trees, her 
white stark face upturned to the night sky. Surely 
the pitying moonbeams, drifting down through the 
swaying branches, never looked upon a sadder sight 
in all their rounds. 

At length consciousness returned to her. For a 
moment she was stunned, bewildered. Then the 
low wash of the river as it laved the banks brought, 
a remembrance of what had transpired to her and 
how she came to be lying there. 

Doris struggled to her feet and stood irresolute 
for a moment in the path. Where should she go? 


194 


Parted at the Altar . 


Which way should she turn ? “ It does not matter 

much,” she murmured, and again she turned her 
white, despairing face to the great city. 

“ Cast adrift again on the streets of New York,” she 
moaned. “ Ah ! well, I will look my cruel fate bravely 
in the face. I will teach my heart to forget him. I 
will tear his image out of my heart, though it take 
a lifetime. I shall never cross his path again — 
never! From this hour I leave the old life behind 
me.” 

The light broke, the sun rose, and another day was 
begun in the bustling city of New York, toward 
which poor, beautiful, hapless Doris, the child of 
fate, had turned her steps. 

The same sun which had crossed the zenith was 
shining just then upon a strange scene which was 
transpiring in the far-off village of Beech Grove on 
the Chesapeake. 

An hour before, a magnificent equipage had 
entered the village, and the driver had stopped one 
of the pedestrians, and inquired the way to Madame 
Delmar’s seminary. 

The carriage contained a lady and gentleman. 
Both were greatly agitated, though the gentleman 
did his best to soothe his companion. 

“ As we draw near the seminary gates, my heart 


Disowned. 


r 9S 

beats so tumultuously, I almost fear it will break, 
Hulbert,” she said, smiling through her tears. 

“Joy never kills, my dear Dora,” he replied. 
“ Calm yourself, darling.” 

“ How can you talk of being calm, Hulbert,” she 
cried, “ when I have been looking forward to this 
moment for nearly eighteen years ? It has haunted 
me in my dreams, been ever present in my waking 
hours. My one prayer to Heaven has been, Heaven 
hasten the hour in which I am to meet my child, and 
clasp her once more in her mother’s loving arms.” 

“ Doris must have grown into a beautiful young 
girl,” said the gentleman, thoughtfully. “ She has 
your features, my dear.” 

“Will she meet me with a glad cry of love, or 
with coldness, I wonder ?” murmured the lady. “ It 
must have been a great cross to her never to have 
known her parents; and the knowledge that she had 
been forsaken in her infancy by those who should 
have been her protectors. Po&r little Doris ! — my 
pretty little, golden-haired* baby !” And the lady 
commenced to weep afresh. 

“ You forget, Dora, it was done for the best — the 
very best,” said' Hulbert Brandon, a look of pain 
crossing his noble face. “You forget that our 
history — our past — has been no common one — our 
romantic meeting and hasty, secret marriage, and 


Parted at the Altar . 


196 

our dismay at finding out there had been the bitter- 
est kind of a feud existing between our families for 
years. You were obliged to keep the birth of our 
child, as well as our marriage, a secret from them, 
telling them you were visiting friends during those 
months. 

“ I will never forget how we met in secret at the 
park gate one night ; how they discovered us stand- 
ing there together, and tore you from my arms. 
They took you abroad, keeping you abroad long 
years; and in disguise 1 followed, and was always 
near you. We would have been happy, even under 
these disadvantages, if we had but had our child 
with us. 

“ You felt more contented when the nurse wrote 
you that she had placed the child at Madame Del- 
mar’s, and you received her. letters regularly for 
years that she was watching the child faithfully 
from afar ; and that Doris, who was known as 
madame’s ward, was growing up into a beautiful 
young girl. 

“ Now, after all these years, death has dissolved 
these bonds which bound us to secrecy, and we can 
acknowledge the marriage which was solemnized 
eighteen years ago at last.” 

“ And, hurrying here, we find the old nurse passed 
away two months ago,” sighed Mrs. Brandon, 


Disowned. 


19 7 


“ That is why her letters ceased to come. But we 
will speak no more of the sad topic. What a joyful 
future we will have, Hulbert. We will take our 
daughter to our beautiful home, and surround her 
with every luxury wealth can purchase and love 
lavish upon her. How well we shall love her to 
make up for these long years of enforced separation. 
Little Doris will be quite an heiress, too — heiress to 
a million. I hope it will not make the child proud.” 

Hulbert Brandon pressed his wife’s hand. At 
that moment the carriage turned an abrupt curve in 
the steep road, and the towers and gables of the grim 
stone building, with the gilt letters, “ Madame 
Delmar’s Seminary,” burst upon their view. 

The lady trembled with agitation as her husband 
assisted her to alight, and led her through the great 
arched gateway up the lilac-bordered path that led 
to the broad marble steps of the entrance. 

A tidy maid answered the summons and showed 
the visitors into the reception room. 

“ They preferred not to send you their card,” 
said the girl to madame, in delivering their mes- 
sage. “ They said — •” 

Madame cut the maid short. 

“No cards! Humph! Inferior people, most 
likely.” And a dark frown settled on her face at 
being awakened from her mid-day siesta. 


198 


Parted at the Altar . 


“ Indeed, they’re not, madame,” declared the 
maid. “ The lady is a real lady, with a silk dress 
on as stiff as a board and diamonds on as big as 
partridge eggs.” 

Madame Delmar walked down the stairs with a 
feeling of curiosity. 

“ Why did they not send up their cards ?” she 
wondered. 

Opening the , door and entering with a stately 
mien, she found herself in the presence of her 
visitors. 

She took in at a glance the elegance and quality 
of the lady’s apparel — the diamonds that sparkled 
like suns, that depended from her shell-like ears and 
on her dainty white hands. Madame Delmar saw 
that the gentleman was stately and of commanding 
presence — evidently a thorough gentleman, and 
wealthy. 

The wife was looking into madame’s face, her 
own face turning from red to white. 

There never was a grimmer sight than Madame 
Delmar presented as she advanced to greet them. 
She was rigidly upright, as one encased in strong 
whalebone ; there was not one bend in her. Her hair 
was iron-gray, drawn straight back from her temples 
into a little knot at the back of her head ; her dress 
was iron-gray, ill made, ill fitting, with big horn 


Disowned \ 


199 


buttons down the terribly long, straight waist that 
ended in a welting cord just where the too ample 
skirt began. 

A sudden fear filled Mrs. Brandon’s anxious heart. 
Did her beautiful little Doris have a happy life of it 
here with this grim, austere madame ? 

In a few, brief words Hulbert Brandon told his 
story — the story that seemed more like a weird 
romance than reality to madame’s astounded ears. 

“ My dear Hulbert, ask madame to send for Doris 
to come to us at once!” cried Mrs. Brandon, 
excitedly. “ Don’t you see the moments are like 
hours to me? I must see my child.” 

And, with a heart throbbing almost as painfully as 
his wife’s, Mr. Brandon asked that Doris might be 
brought to them without a moment’s unnecessary 
delay. 

“ I am a wealthy man,” he said, w T ith emotion. 
“ I will make you a rich woman for life for the care 
you have bestowed upon our little Doris.” 

They both saw Madame Delmar’s face turn from 
red to white, then deepen into a dull gray. How 
could she tell them ? How dare she face them and 
tell them that, less than two months ago, she had 
driven the poor, homeless, friendless girl from her 
door — driven her forth in the storm and darkness of 
\he terrible night, to live or to die, as God saw fit ? 


2oo 


Parted at the Altar. 


Closed her doors against poor, helpless, hapless 
Doris, and forced her to face the cruel world ? She 
had the grace to feel ashamed. A terrible fear 
seized her as to the punishment that might be 
inflicted upon her when they discovered what she 
had done. 

Warring and tyrannizing over a helpless, lone girl 
was one thing, and answering to a stern, outraged 
father for those offences was quite another matter. 
Words seemed to die on her lips. 

“You do not answer, madame,” cried Hulbert 
Brandon, springing forward. “Is Doris ill? Has 
anything befallen our child ? For the love of 
Heaven, speak, I implore you ! See, my wife is 
almost fainting with anxiety !” 

“ I — I suppose I must speak sooner or later,” 
faltered madame, huskily, hiding her ghastly face in 
her shaking hands. “ Try and be prepared for a 
bitter blow.” 

Mrs. Brandon reeled and fell backward uncon- 
scious in her husband’s arms. Thus she was saved 
from hearing the cruel falsehood that fell so glibly 
from Madame Delmar’s lips. 

“ In Heaven’s name speak !” cried Mr. Brandon, 
hoarsely. “ Suspense is killing me. I cannot 
endure it. What of Doris?” 


An Adventure. 


201 


“She is not here. She is gone!” muttered 
madame. 

“ Gone !” he repeated, hoarsely. “ I — I do not 
understand/' 

“ She left the seminary two months ago, stole 
away at midnight under the cover of darkness. She 
eloped with some one. Whom, or where they met 
or went, I know not. That is all I can tell you. I 
am sorry for you, sir. I always loved Doris, dear 
— sweet little Doris.” 

“ Oh, my God ! my God !” groaned the unhappy 
father, “ have we returned for this ! It will kill my 
poor wife. It would be better if the girl had died 
in her infancy. From this hour I disown herA 
Henceforth I have no daughter. I will not search 
for her. Let the girl follow the path she has 
chosen.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

AN ADVENTURE. 

Madame Delmar, the dignified principal of the 
young ladies’ seminary, felt considerably perturbed 
at the strange turn affairs were taking. After her 


202 


Parted at the Altar. 


visitors had taken their leave she quickly sought 
her brother and told him the whole story. 

“ If the girl had been here they might have settled 
a handsome annuity on me for life for providing for 
her,” she groaned. “ Yes, by sending her away I 
have lost a little fortune. Was there ever such an 
unlucky contretemps ?" 

“ It serves you right, I should say,” replied John 
Delmar, “ for turning poor little Doris away from 
home in the bitter storm that night.” 

“ Who would have supposed, after all these long 
years, her parents would have claimed her, and that 
the creature I had always looked upon as a depen- 
dent and a burden — born to be my especial cross — 
was, in reality, a millionaire’s daughter, heiress to a 
million of money ? Oh, dear, if I had but known 
that! I would give the world to find Doris again, 
the poor, dear girl ! I — I — am afraid I was a little 
too harsh with her, John. I never meant to turn 
her from our door out into the cold world that 
stormy night. I only meant to frighten her into 
explaining where she had been. I never thought 
she would take me at my word and go. Oh, dear ! 
oh, dear ! if I- could but find her.” 

“ You can never tell when you are entertaining 
an angel unawares,” said John, bluntly. “ The poor 
child had a hard enough life of it here. She was a 


An Adventure . 


203 


girl of spirit. I wonder little Doris did not rebel 
long before ; you were so cross, so cruel, with the 
child.” 

“ I meant only to discipline the girl properly,” 
faltered madame, her florid face flushed guiltily. 
“ One must be very strict to keep up the reputation 
of a fashionable seminary for young ladies.” 

“ There ought to be a line drawn somewhere 
between severity and strictnevSS,” declared John, 
emphatically. 

“ Would you really care to see little Doris again ?” 
he asked, abruptly, eying madame curiously. 

She started to her feet, forgetting her usual calm 
demeanor, her face turning from white to red in 
her great excitement. 

‘‘Do you know where she is, John?” she asked, 
quickly. “ There is something you are trying to 
keep back from me — something you are trying to 
hide from me,” she declared. “I see it in your 
face.” 

“ It is fortunate that I do know where she is, that I 
may restore her to her parents,” answered John 
Delmar, gravely. 

Madame Delmar was too astonished — too amazed 
— for words. She listened like one dumbfounded 
while her brother related that pitiful story of how 
he had followed poor little Doris out into the storm, 


204 


Parted at the Altar . 


begging her to return, and how she had persistently 
refused. 

“ Madame has turned me from her door,” she 
sobbed, “and never again will I willingly cross her 
threshold.” And, finding all remonstrance useless, 
how he had at length given Doris a letter to the 
Granvilles in New York, and she had gone on there. 

“ I shall go to New York at once and fetch her 
back,’’ declared madame ; and, without delay, she 
put her decision into execution. 

To her dismay, she learned, as Doris had learned 
before her, that they had left the city long since. 
What, then, had become of hapless Doris ? 

Cast adrift, homeless, friendless, on the great des- 
olate streets of New York, where had she gone ? 
What had become of her? If ill had befallen poor, 
pretty, pansy-eyed Doris, the guilty, heartless 
woman felt that Heaven would hold her account- 
able for it. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Brandon and his heart-sick wife 
had returned to their elegant villa, on the banks of 
the St. Lawrence. But, from the hour in which 
they turned from Madame Delmar’s seminary, Mrs. 
Brandon had grown rapidly ill, — a brain fever had 
resulted from the horrible shock, and the deep, keen, 
bitter disappointment she had sustained in learning 
of the flight of her beautiful young daughter from 


An Adventure . 


205 


the seminary while she was on her way to claim 
her, after long years of separation. 

Her distracted cries for Doris — only for Doris — 
were pitiful to hear. This was her one dream by 
day and by night. The bereaved father asked God 
to pardon him for the rash vow he had uttered 
against his fair young daughter in the bitter anger 
of the moment. 

He made strenuous efforts to find her ; still it was 
all to no purpose ; if the earth had opened and 
swallowed her, she could not have been more com- 
pletely lost to the world. And, lying on her sick 
bed, the poor mother turned her face to the wall, 
refusing to be comforted. 

Mr. Brandon was in despair. 

He quite believed they would never be able to 
find Doris; but he never expressed this thought to 
his wife. Her dream was never to be realized. She 
died with the name of “ Doris ” on her cold, stiffen- 
ing lips. In a few months’ time her husband was 
called upon to join her. He was a victim to an 
accident ; a train on which he was a passenger 
had been hurled down an embankment. He was 
picked up in a fatal condition, and was barely 
able to make his will in favor of his long 
lost and missing daughter Doris before death 
claimed him. Then it was discovered that the 


206 


Parted at the Altar. 


gentleman, known as plain Mr. Hulbert Brandon, 
was, in reality, Hulbert Brandon Fielding, son of 
the late Lord Fielding, of Loam Abbey, England. 

Dr. Lancaster, of New York city, was named 
executor of the will. It was well the doctor 
knew the sad history of Lord Fielding’s son ; how 
he had returned with his wife, after long years of 
absence, to find his child, and the hard experience 
he had met with. 

“Of course, I will do my best to find Miss Field- 
ing, the missing heiress,” said the doctor, thought- 
fully, as he strolled leisurely down Broadway one 
morning, “ but I fear very much it will be a patient 
work of years.” 

“ It would be very fortunate if the young girl is 
modest and well-mannered,” said the doctor’s wife 
to her husband one day, “ and more fortunate still if 
our son Karl would fall in love with her.” 

“ Heaven forbid !” groaned the doctor. “ By all 
I can learn of her history from Madame Delmar, the 
very estimable principal of the seminary where she 
passed her early life, she is a regular little tartar, 
quite a barbarian, in fact, and she capped the climax 
by willfully eloping with some one from boarding- 
school. No doubt it is some shiftless vagabond 
whom the girl has fallen in love with and married.” 

“ She is heiress to a million !” sighed the doctor’s 


An Adventure . 


207 


wile, “ and I should have liked our Karl to marry 
an heiress.” 

“ There’s time enough yet,” declared the doctor. 
“ He is only twenty-four now. Men would be bet- 
ter off if they did not marry until thirty.” 

Meanwhile, fate had destined long since that the 
doctor’s handsome son and Doris should meet. In 
explaining how it occurred, we must go back to 
Doris, and that night on which she had left Thorn- 
ton Villa forever, turning her face toward the 
crowded streets of New York. 

Hour after hour Doris traversed the sunlit streets, 
sick at heart, and discouraged, as many a young girl 
has been before her. Suddenly a thought struck 
Doris. 

Why not go to the lady at the agency, who once 
before, in her time of need, had come to her rescue? 

Doris remembered the address, but it was so far 
up town that she would have to take a car to 
reach it. 

As she stepped upon the platform the car gave a 
sudden lurch forward, precipitating Doris to the 
crosswalk. The great iron wheel would have passed 
over the tiny foot that fell within a hair’s breadth 
of it, and .crushed it, if it had not been for the timely 
assistance of a young man, fortunately close at hand, 
who sprang forward as in an instant of time, that 


208 


Parted at the Altar. 


seemed an eternity to the horror-stricken, paralyzed 
spectators, and succeeded in rescuing the lovely 
young girl from her perilous position. 

For a moment Doris was quite stunned by what 
had transpired. 

“ I hope you are not hurt,” said her rescuer, 
kindly, as he assisted her to her feet.] 

A sharp exclamation broke from Doris’s lips, and 
she would have fallen to the pavement again had he 
not put out his strong arm and caught her. 

“ I — I am afraid my foot is sprained by the fall,” 
she faltered. “ I — I cannot stand.” 

“ Let me call a carriage for you, and take you to 
your home,” said the young man, eagerly. “You 
are not able to stand.” 

“ No, no,” faltered Doris, hiding her face in her 
hands, and bursting into tears. 

“ Surely you may trust me ; I am a gentleman,” 
he said, courteously. “ I am Karl Lancaster, son of 
Dr. Lancaster, of No. — Lexington Avenue. I also 
am a doctor and a surgeon. Believe me, if, as you 
fear, your foot or ankle is sprained, I can be of 
assistance to you ; I beg of you do not hesitate.” 

And he called a passing cab as he spoke, and 
despite Doris’s incoherent protestations, lifted her 
in his strong arms as easily as though sh'e were a lit- 


An Adventure. 


209 


tie child, placed her on the soft cushion, and took his 
seat beside her. 

“ Now, if you will give the driver your number, 
please,” he said, “ we will soon have you with your 
friends.” 

“ I— I tried to explain before, but, sir, you would 
not listen,” sobbed Doris, in the keenest of embar- 
rassment. “ I — 1 am a stranger in New York. 1 
have no relatives, no friends here. I was just on my 
way up-town to the employment agency, to apply for 
a position ; and now — oh, Heaven help me! — if my 
foot is sprained what shall I do?” she moaned. 

This was certainly an extraordinary dilemma, 
but Mr. Lancaster was equal to the emergency. 

“ In that case I may still hope of being of service 
to you,” he answered. “You must put yourself 
entirely under my charge; will you?” 

“ I have no right to be a burden upon the kind- 
ness of a stranger,” sobbed Doris, piteously. “ No, 
no ; I could not.” 

“ But, under the circumstances, you must allow 
me to act for you,” said Karl. “ Believe me, it will 
be a pleasure to aid you,” he added, earnestly; 
and as he looked down into the fair, girlish face, he 
told himself never, in all his life, had he beheld a 
being so gloriously fair. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE MISSING HEIRESS. 

“ No, no,” repeated Doris, vehemently, “ I can- 
not accept any favor from a stranger’s hands. It 
would not be right.” 

Fate decreed that it should be otherwise, how- 
ever; for at that moment, overcome by the pain of 
the swollen ankle, Doris suddenly fell backward 
against the cushions in a deep swoon. 

Mr. Lancaster immediately gave the order to 
No. — West Twenty-third street. This was a 
fashionable up-town boarding-house,'- and to the 
landlady, Mrs. Morgan Dr. Lancaster’s son was 
well known. 

She was sitting at the window when the coach 
stopped before her door. She looked with amaze- 
ment as the door of the vehicle was suddenly flung 
open, and Mr. Lancaster stepped to the pavement 

bearing the unconscious figure of a young girl in 
[ 210 ] 


The Missing Heiress. 


21 1 


his arms. What could it possibly mean? She 
admitted him herself. 

In a few brief words, as he laid his unconscious 
burden down upon the sofa, Karl told Mrs. Morgan 
how he had met the lovely young stranger, and 
rescued her from being crippled for life — but that 
the violent fall to the pavement had injured her 
ankle, however. 

With Mrs. Morgan’s assistance, the swollen ankle 
was soon attended to. 

It was not as bad as he had at first supposed ; 
still it would necessitate the fair patient’s keeping 
her room for a fortnight at least. 

“ And you want me to keep her here until she is 
able to be about?” asked Mrs. Morgan, dubiously. 
“I would do anything in the, world for you or your 
family, Karl, for your father’s skill saved my child’s 
life once — I never forget that ; but I feel a little 
reluctant about taking in this stranger. You should 
have taken her to the hospital.” 

Karl could not bear the thought, somehow. 

“ She is so fair, so fragile and delicate, it seems 
a pity to send her there.” 

While they had been speaking, Mrs. Morgan had 
been vigorously applying cold water, to which a 
few drops of ammonia had been added, to the 
patient’s face, to revive her from her protracted 


2 12 


Parted at the Altar. 


swoon. Her face, hands and hair were bathed 
and rubbed briskly to start the circulation of blood, 
when lo ! a strange thing happened under the 
strong action of the ammonia. 

The dark stain commenced to quickly disappear 
from both face and hair. 

Mrs. Morgan called Karl to her side with a cry of 
dismay. 

“ Look, Mr. Lancaster !” she cried. “ The girl is 
disguised ! She is fair as a lily — not dark !” 

Karl’s amazement was certainly as great as her 
own. They looked at each other in silence and 
dismay. 

“ There is some dark mystery here, depend upon 
it,” declared Mrs. Morgan, emphatically. “ No 
young woman who lives an honest, straightforward 
life has anything to conceal. This girl may be a 
thief, an impostor, or worse. 1 am sorry I took her 
in. I shall never know a moment’s peace, with 
watching her night and day, while she is under this 
roof. She must be taken away.” 

“ I cannot bring myself to believe that there is 
anything wrong about her,” declared Karl, impuls- 
ively. “ I really cannot.” 

Mrs. Morgan looked at him sharply. 

“ I should say her pretty face has bewitched you, 
Mr. Lancaster.” 


The Missing Heiress, 


213 


She little dreamed how near the truth these words 
were. 

“ As 1 said before, out of this house she goes 
to-morrow, Mr. Karl. I am sorry for her ; but I can- 
not have her here. She must be taken to the hos- 
pital/’ 

“ I will call to-morrow, then, and see about effect- 
ing the change, if you must have it so,” said Karl, 
disappointedly and coldly. 

When the morrow came, Doris could not be 
moved. A high fever set in, and her condition was 
quite alarming. In a week’s time, however, the 
fever had abated, and the danger was past. 

But in those few days Karl had been a daily vis- 
itor at the house. Whole hours he spent at his 
patient’s bedside, skillfully battling with the fatal 
fever, until at last it was under control. 

And in those days Karl had learned to love the 
beautiful stranger with all the ardor of his nature. 
She was his first and only love — and first love is the 
sweetest dream of life. 

At the end of the week, again Mrs. Morgan 
insisted upon having the lovely young stranger 
removed. 

Though weak, Doris was conscious. She had 
refused to divulge her name to Mrs. Morgan, saying 
simply, ‘‘Call me Doris; only that. More I cannot 


214 


Parted at the Altar . 


tell you. 1 am very unhappy. No young girl has 
suffered more than I have in this world, and more 
unjustly.” 

One day, when Karl called, he found Doris’s eyes 
heavy with unshed tears, and he felt then that Mrs. 
Morgan must have spoken to Doris about wanting 
her apartment. 

“ I am going to leave you to-day, Mr. Lancaster,” 
she said, holding out a mite of a slim, white hand to 
him. “ You have been very kind to me. I shall 
never forget what you have done for me. I can 
never repay you for it, save by my most heartfelt 
gratitude.” 

“But where are you going?” he asked, earnestly. 
“ You are too weak and ill to face the world. What 
will you do ?” 

“ I do not know,” responded Doris, drearily. 

In a moment handsome, impulsive Karl was beside 
her. 

“ Let me tell you what to do,” he cried, eagerly. 
“ Marry me. I love you. When I first looked upon 
your face I said to myself : She, and no other shall 
be my bride if I can win her. Our acquaintance has 
not been long, still, it has been long enough for me 
to know. If I lost you, life would not be worth the 
living. Yes, I love you with all the deep, earnest 
affection of a heart that has never throbbed with 


The Missing Heiress. 


215 


love for any woman before. Marry me, and let me 
take you to my father’s home, and present you to 
him and to my mother as my cherished bride. My 
life will be devoted to you. You shall never know 
one wish unfulfilled.” 

“ Stop ! stop !” gasped Doris, incoherently, as she 
endeavored to check the torrent of his impassioned 
words. “ Do not, I pray you, speak so to me. It 
can never be. I — I am sorry, for you have been so 
kind to me. While I am most grateful to you, 1 
repeat that I can never, never marry you.” 

The young man started to his feet, dropped the 
little hand he held, and looked at her. Never had 
she appeared so fatally lovely to him, as in this 
moment in which she told him she never could be 
his. 

“ Tell me,” he cried, approaching a step nearer to 
her, his face paling, “ is my cause hopeless ? Do 
you love an)' one else?” 

“ Yes,” she said, simply, “ I love another, and love 
as hopelessly as you love me. For that reason my 
heart aches with the keenest sympathy for you. 
You must learn to forget me, Mr. Lancaster.” 

“ It will be hard for me,” he said, gently. “ 1 
have learned to love you so well. If you were to 
ask me for my life at this moment I would give it to 


Parted at the Altar. 


216 


you ; and if ever you want a friend, remember my 
words. I will give my life to serve you.” 

“Thank you,” she faltered. “If the time should 
come when I want you, I shall not forget.” 

“ You will, at least, give me your full name ?” he 
said, sadly. “ It is cruel to know you only as 
Doris.” 

“ Then know me as Doris Brandon,” she mur- 
mured. 

The name had a strangely familiar sound to it, but 
he was too much perturbed just then to think of it. 

“ If I knew you were going to home and friends I 
could feel happier,” he said. 

And he never forgot the sad voice in which she 
replied : 

“ On the whole face of the earth I have neither 
home nor kindred. I am alone in the world ! 
Alone !” 

Those were the words which haunted him as he 
left the house and walked slowly toward his home. 

His father was in the library. Karl paused on the 
threshold as his father called his name. 

“ Still poring over those papers, father?” he asked, 
as he drew up a chair to the table. “ I have advised 
you, in my opinion, the only way to find this long- 
lost heiress, Miss Fielding, is to advertise in all the 
leading papers for information concerning her.” 


The Missing Heiress . 


2 1 7 

“ Many an adventuress, tempted by so magnificent 
a fortune, might respond,” declared the doctor. 
“ No ; I prefer to go about it in a more methodical 
way, by tracing Miss Fielding, or Miss Brandon— 
Miss Doris Brandon, the name she was called there 
by — from the school she — ” 

In a flash Karl Lancaster had sprung to his feet. 

“ Doris Brandon /” he gasped. “ Great Heaven ! 
am I mad, or do I dream ?” 

In an instant he had seized his hat and rushed from 
the house. 

Dr. Lancaster stared after his son’s rapidly van- 
ishing form in the greatest astonishment. 

“ I cannot think what is getting over the boy of 
late,” he mused. “ Now, why should he start off in 
that abrupt fashion ?” 

Meanwhile Karl had hailed a passing coupe and 
sprang into it. 

“ To Number — West Twenty-third street!” he 
cried. “ Make it as quick as you can, driver.” 

The man whipped up his horses, and the vehicle 
fairly flew down the avenue, but to the impatient 
young man it seemed to fairly creep along. 

“ Doris Brandon !” he cried, hoarsely. “ Heaven ! 
how strange it is that the name did not strike me 
as the one by which Mr. Hulbert Brandon Fielding’s 
ong-lost heiress was known by while at boarding- 


2 1 8 


Parted at the Altar . 


school ! And her face ! Ah ! there could be no 
mistaking the lovely childish face, framed inits riangs 
of soft golden curls, so like the face of Mr. Bran- 
don’s wife, only younger, sweeter, fairer.” 

There remained no doubt in his mind but what 
Doris was the long-lost heiress for whom his father 
was searching so diligently. 

A moment later the coach drew up in front of 
Mrs. Morgan’s boarding-house. 

In a flash Karl was up the steps, and the vigorous 
peal of the bell brought the landlady herself to the 
door. 

“ What! Is it you back so soon again, Mr. Lan- 
caster ?” she said, looking curiously into the flushed, 
eager, handsome face. 

'‘Yes!” he answered, impetuously. “ I must see 
Doris at once, please. Tell her it is a matter of 
the greatest importance.” 

“ You are too late, Mr. Lancaster,” she replied. 
“ Doris is gone. She left the house about twenty 
minutes ago.” 

Gone ! The word smote him like a blow. Gone ! 
He could scarcely believe he had heard aright. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE GYPSY GIRL. 

Since the night of the sad tragedy Frederick 
Thornton was a changed man. He grew., morose 
and silent, spending his time shut up in the library, 
or whole hours by the river bank, gazing thought- 
fully, and with bitter regret, on the sunlit water, 
beneath which he believed Doris lay in all her 
sweet, young beauty. 

The discovery of Vivian’s true disposition, 
beneath that mask of smiles, had been a severe 
shock to him ; his whole soul revolted at the 
thought of marrying her now. 

He concluded to leave home for awhile, and seek 
such solace as a life of travel would bring him, and 
forget, as far as he could, the sweet, fair face of the 
lovely young bride whom he had won only to lose 
on their bridal day. 

One morning, .coming down to breakfast a little 
earlier than usual, Mrs, Thornton saw hersonstand- 

t«9] 


2 20 


Parted at the Attar* 


ing, buried in deep thought, by the lace-draped 
window. 

“ Mother,” he called, wheeling suddenly about, 
“ will you see that a few necessary articles are 
packed up in my valise with as little delay as possi- 
ble ? Iam going away for a few months.” 

Mrs. Thornton trembled. This was an unlooked- 
for procedure. In vain she pleaded, coaxed and 
argued with her handsome son. He was inexora- 
ble. 

“ I must go away for a time, mother,” he said. 
“ Do not oppose me.” 

“ But Vivian !” she said. “ Your going will break 
her heart.” 

A scornful smile curled his cynical lips. He was 
just about to reply: “You are mistaken there, 
mother; she has no heart,” but he checked the 
impetuous words. 

His mother had scarcely quitted the morning- 
room ere he saw a small lad approaching the house 
in a hesitating manner. Frederick drew back the 
heavy lace curtain, and called to the boy. 

“ I .want to see Mr. Frederick Thornton,” said the 
lad. “ Can you tell me where I can find him, sir?” 

“ Right here, my boy. I am Frederick Thornton. 
What can I do for you ?” 

“ I am to place this letter in your hand, sir, and 


The Gypsy Girl. 


221 


wait for a reply,” he said, touching his cap. “The 
gentleman who gave it to me is pacing up and down 
the ravine yonder, waiting for the answer.” 

“ 1 will not keep you waiting long,” said Fred- 
erick. 

He had noticed that the envelope bore Mr. Court- 
ney’s chirography, and was written in pencil. 

He tore open the envelope, and ran his eyes over 
the note it contained, his handsome face turning 
strangely pale as he read. 

It was brief, to the point, and read as follows : 

“Mr. Frederick Thornton— Sir: The an- 
nouncement of the dissolution of the engagement of 
marriage which has existed between my daughter 
Vivian and yourself has just reached me. You 
have annulled that bond coolly and deliberately, is 
seems, without just cause or provocation (as there it 
no barrier between you and Vivian), exposing her to 
the comment of the whole social world by this out- 
rageous conduct. I, as her father and protector, 
demand that the marriage shall go on. She must be 
your wife ere the sun sets, or I shall demand, on 
your refusal to comply with so perfectly reasonable 
a request, the only satisfaction one gentleman can 
accord another — a duel. And within the hour in 
the deep ravine that skirts the cliff down the road, 
there I await your answer. Will you marry 
Vivian, or shall the duel go on? 

“ Colonel Courtney.” 


222 


Parted at the Altar. 


Not a muscle of Frederick Thornton's face 
changed. A stern expression crept into the grave, 
dark eyes and around his mouth. He knew that 
colonel was perfectly well aware of the conditions 
under which that engagement with Vivian was con- 
tracted ; that, owing to that fatal accident, all mem- 
ory of a bride waiting for him, or all trace of her 
presence, had been obliterated completely from his 
mind. In all truth and honor, he had believed him- 
self free to woo and win the old soldier’s daughter. 

It was quite true, since Doris’s death (as he 
believed her to be dead), no barrier rose between 
himself and Vivian, save his own inclination. 

He was too honorable to wed Vivian without 
love, and love her he did not. He had no heart to 
offer her. His heart was buried in poor little Doris’s 
grave. 

He would not be coerced into marrying Vivian. 
He would be true to poor little Doris’s memory 
while his life lasted. 

He tore a leaf from his memorandum book and 
penciled the following words upon it : 

“ Let the duel go on. I will be upon the ground 
at the appointed time. 

“ Frederick Thornton.” 

This he hastily folded up and handed to the 


The Gypsy Girl. 


223 


lad, who quickly disappeared with the fatal mes- 
sage. 

Five — ten — minutes passed. Frederick Thornton 
still stood by the window, motionless, gazing out 
into the brilliant sunshine ; then he turned away 
with a sigh, and set about making his preparations 
for the coming event. The time was short, but he 
completed his business arrangements, and wrote out 
the directions for the distribution of his effects. 

The whole earth looked so peaceful, so smiling, 
under the light of the summer’s sun, that poor Fred- 
erick told himself it would be hard, indeed, to leave 
it. 

Mrs. Thornton never forgot how pale her hand- 
some son looked as he came into the room, took her 
in his arms and kissed her, saying that he was going 
to stroll down the road a little way, the morning 
was so fine. 

Was it instinct, a forewarning of some dread 
calamity, that caused his mother to follow him to 
the porch, refusing to be comforted ? 

“ I don’t feel right about your going out this 
morning, Frederick, my son,” she sobbed. “ Some- 
thing tells me I shall never see you as I see you now 
Something tells me you should not go.” 

“ Nonsense, mother. I will come back to you in 


224 


Parted at the Altar. 


an hour’s time, if my life is spared,” he said, with 
stiff, white lips. 

Would to Heaven she could have understood how 
fatally true those words were. 

He tore himself from her clinging clasp, and kiss- 
ing the white hands that would have held him back 
from ruin and destruction, with swift footsteps 
walked rapidly down the paved walk, and out of the 
grounds. 

He stopped a moment on the brow of the hill and 
looked around him. When that same sun rose 
again, he might never see it, or if he lived, his hands 
would be dyed with a fellow-creature’s life-blood. 
Frederick Thornton shuddered, then a reckless sort 
of laugh broke from his lips. 

How green the sloping hillside looked, dotted 
here and there with brilliant wild flowers and 
spreading beech trees. The river danced in the sun- 
light beyond and its music sounded like a dirge in 
his ears. 

Toward the right of the stream the greensward 
was dotted here and there with gypsy tents ; 
swarthy men and maidens making the air ring with 
their rollicksome songs. Quite apart from the rest, 
and directly in the path before Frederick, a young 
girl sat. A tambourine, decked with bright, gay 
ribbons, lay on the grass beside her, and her gaudy, 

















i 


AH ! SHE WAS TOO late. — See Chapter XXIV. 


































V 







































- 















• c. 


' . 





• - 











































The Gypsy GiyL 


225 


picturesque dress, her long dark hair, and bright, 
black, glancing eyes betokened her race. 

A gay, dashing song broke from her crimson lips, 
and Frederick Thornton stopped short in the path, 
his arms folded across his chest, his head drooping 
upon his breast, and listened. 

The gypsy girl raised her eyes suddenly, and saw 
the stranger standing in the daisy-studded path. 

She bounded to her feet with the agility of a 
graceful young gazelle, and courtesied low before 
him. 

“ Have you come to us to have your fortune told, 
handsome youth ?” she asked, raising her dark, 
lustrous eyes to his face. “ I can tell you all the 
mysteries that lie in the future, and the dark 
shadows that have gathered in the background of 
the past.” 

Although he knew better, Frederick stood for a 
moment irresolute. At any other time in life he 
would have scorned the proffered offer ; but now, 
when life and death hung in the balance, a feverish 
unrest possessed him to hear what she would tell 
him. 

Long and earnestly the gypsy girl gazed into the 
palm of the white, shapely hand she held in her own 
small dusk ones. 


226 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ You are unhappy in your love,” she said, 
slowly. 

Frederick Thornton laughed a mirthless, reckless 
laugh ; but a strange, brooding shadow crept into 
his eyes, and a flush rose to his pale, handsome face, 
which told the crafty maiden that her shaft had 
struck home, as it usually did. 

“ Do you see a long life or a speedy death for 
me ?” he questioned, curiously. 

And although he spoke carelessly, his lips 
whitened perceptibly. 

“ Death,’’ she said, in a whisper. 

“ Let it come — l have courted it,” returned Fred- 
erick, impatiently. “ I have nothing to live for, any 
how.” 

Although he spoke bravely, he could realize how 
hard it was to die in the spring-time of youth ; to 
bid farewell to the green earth and fair, smiling 
heavens; to be rushed, all unprepared — where? He 
could hear no more. Hurriedly tossing a handful 
of bright silver coin into her lap he moved on. 

For some minutes the gypsy girl stood staring 
after the tall, manly figure hurrying so rapidly 
away. 

“ Can it be that he is the one they are waiting for 
down in the glen?” she muttered, under her breath. 


The Gypsy Girl. 


227 


“ He is handsome as a prince. They must not fight 
the duel I heard them talking about.’' 

Swiftly as a shadow the gypsy girl glided after 
him. 

“Where are you going, Zetta?” cried a gruff 
voice in the girl’s ear, and a heavy hand was laid on 
her shoulder; and looking up she saw her father 
standing before her. 

“ Let me go,” she cried, struggling to free her- 
self from his grasp. “ Let me go quick — I must!” 

“ I want you in the tent. Where is the silver you 
had just now — come, where is it?” 

She threw the handful of coins on the ground. 

“ There — it is all there,” she cried. “ Let me go.” 

“ And I say there is more hidden in your 
pocket. Come into the tent and we shall see,” 
he declared, gruffly. 

Ten minutes later Zetta was speeding like a 
storm-driven swallow down the path. Would she 
be too late to carry out her daring plan to stop the 
duel, if one was intended? Ten minutes! Many a 
life has been jeopardized and lost in one half of that 
time. As she reached the summit of the hill she 
gave a piercing cry. Ah, she was too late! She 
had heard no sound of shot or sabre, yet a group 
of men were gathered around a prostrate figure 
lying prone on its face upon the ground. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

COLD, LOVELESS AND DREARY. 

For one instant Karl Lancaster stood quite still 
like one stricken dumb. Doris was gone ! Gone ! 
How the words smote upon his ear ! 

“Why, how white you look, Mr. Lancaster!” said 
Mrs. Morgan, looking curiously into the young 
man’s white, handsome face. 

He turned abruptly away and flung open the door. 
Mrs. Morgan was at his side in an instant, laying a 
detaining hand on his arm. 

“ What are you about to do, Mr. Lancaster ?” she 
cried, anxiously. 

“ 1 am going to search for her until I find her,” 
answered Karl, hoarsely. “ I will search the whole 
world over for her, if needs be.” And with these 
words he rushed from the room and out of the house. 

“ The poor fellow has gone clear daft,” sighed 
Mrs. Morgan. “ It was well that I sent the girl 
[228] 



Cold ’ Loveless and Dreary. 


229 


away before he returned. Why, he would actually 
marry that girl if he could find her. And, oh ! what 
a stormy scene there would be under the old doc- 
tor’s roof ! I am sure his father would disinherit 
him on the spot. He would never forgive him for 
making a mesalliance. Never!” 

Meanwhile Karl Lancaster, with his heart on fire 
and his brain in a whirl, was threading his way 
swiftly along the crowded thoroughfare. 

Which way had poor, pretty Doris gone? Where 
should he find her? Suddenly a thought occurred 
to him that almost took his breath away. He 
remembered Doris had been on her way to an 
employment agency on that day the accident had 
occurred which had so nearly proven fatal. What 
more natural or probable than that she had bent her 
steps in that direction now ? He remembered the 
number, and lost no time in making his way there at 
once. And the first person whom his eyes rested 
upon as he opened the door was Doris herself. 

She started in surprise as she saw him. What ! 
had he followed her here ! And, like Mrs. Morgan, 
she was struck by the strange pallor of his face. 

“Doris — Miss Brandon!” he said, coming up to 
her and catching one of the little white clasped 
hands that lay so idly in her lap. “ Thank God, I 
have found you ! 


230 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ I have much that is of the greatest importance 
to say to you, Doris/’ he went on, “ but I cannot 
speak here.” 

The reception-room beyond was almost deserted 
at this hour of the day. Karl pointed toward it. 

“ Come there with me, Doris,” he said ; “ I have 
that to tell you which will sound more like the 
pages of romance than reality ; but it only serves to 
illustrate the old adage that truth is indeed stranger 
than fiction.” 

Doris shrank back from him, with the memory of 
that scene, in which he had madly declared his love 
for her, beseeching her to marry him, rushing over 
her mind. 

Had he followed her to repeat that scene ? she 
wondered. 

Karl saw her hesitancy, and read her thoughts and 
dread aright. 

“ It is not of myself I wish to speak — not one 
word,” he said, flushing deeply. “ That which I 
have to say concerns you, and you alone, Doris. 
Come !” 

In wonder and dismay, Doris followed him to the 
reception-room beyond. He placed a chair for her, 
and stood leaning against the mantel, seemingly in 
no hurry to begin. 

Doris sat twisting her little white hands nervously 


Cold ’ Loveless and Dreary. 


23* 


together, wondering what new calamity was abou- 
to befall her now. 

“ It was fate that led you to me, Doris,” began 
Karl Lancaster, huskily. “ But before I proceed, I 
must be sure that I am on the right track — beyond 
any possible shadow of a doubt ere I raise your 
hopes. 

“ In the first place, are you the Doris Brandon 
whose life, up to a few weeks ago, was passed at 
Madame Delmars seminary at Beech Grove ?” 

He scarcely breathed in his intensity to catch her 
answer. 

“Yes, I am that most unhappy girl!” breathed 
Doris, faintly. “ But why do you ask ? How could 
you have found out that ?” 

Like one in a confused dream, Doris listened while 
he told her the wonderful story— of her father and 
mother's return, after long years, to reclaim their 
child, only to find her gone, none knew whither; of 
their grief, her mother’s death, and the fatal accident 
which caused her father to follow her soon after, 
having barely time to make his will, leaving his- vast 
wealth to his daughter, with the earnest prayer she 
should be sought for, night and day, until she was 
found. 

“ This fortune was to be kept in trust for Mr. Hul- 
bert Brandon Fielding’s daughter until she is eigh- 


232 


Parted at the Altar . 


teen. My father has been searching for the lost 
heiress ever since. 

“ I thought when I heard the name, ‘ Doris Bran- 
don/ it had a strangely familiar sound ; but not 
until to-day — an hour since — did the astounding 
revelation occur to me that the young girl fate had 
drifted across my path, and the lost heiress my 
father was searching for, were one and the same. 
Allow me to be the first, Miss Fielding, to congratu- 
late you upon the good fortune that has befallen 
you.” 

The beautiful, dreamy, blue eyes were expanded 
in the greatest amazement. All the color had 
faded from the fair young face, leaving it paler 
than the petals of a white lily. He believed she 
had not comprehended what he had said, and he 
repeated : 

“ You are an heiress, Miss Fielding — heiress to a 
million of dollars in your own right, which my 
father, as your guardian, is to hold in trust for you 
until you are eighteen.” 

“Oh, Mr. Lancaster, do you really believe it?” 
cried Doris, breathlessly. “Is there no mistake ? 
Surely there must be. Fate has been so unkind to 
me all my life it must be playing some trick on me 
now,” she declared. 

“ If you are the Doris Brandon who has lived 


Cold, Loveless and Dreary. 


233 


with Madame Delmar up to a short time ago, there 
can be no possible mistake.” 

Doris sprang to her feet, trembling with emotion. 

“ I can scarcely believe that I, Doris Brandon, 
whom the world has used so cruelly, am indeed an 
heiress,” she cried, pushing back the rings of 
golden curls from her flushed face in a bewildered 
sort of way. “ I am only a poor dependent, whom 
nobody has ever cared for,” she went on, pit- 
eously. “ I have never had any money.” 
I am unused to wealth and luxury. My life has 
been hard, lone and dreary. I should not know 
what to do with money.” 

“ After you have seen a little more of the world, 
you won’t say that,” smiled Karl. “ Why, ladies 
know how to make money fairly fly. I am not sur- 
prised at your agitation. A disclosure such as 1 
have made to you would turn almost any young 
lady’s head. No wonder you are bewildered. Per- 
haps no young girl ever had more cause. But you 
must bear prosperity as you have borne adversity. 
From this time out your whole life will be changed. 
Your future will be brilliant ; for, with wealth and 
beauty combined, life is full of golden promise.” 

A dazzling smile parted the girl’s beautiful crim- 
son lips, and the color surged back to the sweet 
young face in a burning tide. In her great excite- 


234 


Parted at the Altar . 


ment, she forgot what Karl was saying to her. 
She did not hear one word. Doris’s thoughts 
had drifted back to Frederick Thornton, and her 
heart was crying out : 

“ Would he have turned from me had he known 
I was one day to become a great heiress — quite as 
much of an heiress as Vivian, whom he loved ? 

V Oh, Frederick,” she moaned out in the bitter- 
ness of her own heart, “ what would all the wealth 
in the world be worth to me without your love ?” 

Doris offered no resistance when Karl proposed 
that she should accompany him home at once. 

Dr. Lancaster was more than amazed when, a 
little later, a cab stopped before his palatial resi- 
dence, and from it stepped his son, leading by the 
hand a young girl, plainly dressed, almost - to 
shabbiness, but with a face as gloriously beautiful 
as an angel’s. 

It had been the one secret fear of his life that 
some day his son might marry on the impulse of the 
moment, attracted by the pretty face of some lovely 
working-girl chance might throw in his way. And 
he meant that this handsome son of his should marry 
an heiress, or not marry at all. Like his wife, he 
had the secret hope that the heiress, Miss Fielding, 
might be found, and that she and his son might be 
mutually attracted toward each other. 


Cold ’ Loveless and Dreary. 


235 


His brow grew dark and stormy as the quick 
footsteps drew near the library. As the door 
opened, he rose to his feet, coldly confronting the 
two who stood on the threshold. 

He expected to hear the words : 

“ Father, bid us welcome. I have brought you 
home a daughter. Welcome my bride, father.” 

Instead, his son stepped forward, leading the 
pretty, timid, shrinking young girl by the hand, say- 
ing, hurriedly : 

“ Father, behold Miss Doris Brandon Fielding ! 
I have discovered the long-lost heiress — at last ! 
Bid her welcome, father.” 

“ What !” cried the old gentleman, quite believ- 
ing his ears had deceived him, — “ do I hear aright?” 

“ I hope so father,” said Karl, smiling. “ I said I 
had found Miss Fielding, for whom you have been 
searching so long and patiently. Bid her welcome.” 

“ I — do not — comprehend,” exclaimed the old 
gentleman. “ How and where did you meet this 
young lady, and what reason have you for believing 
her to be the child of my poor friend Fielding and 
his heart-broken wife ?” 

“Her face — in which the resemblance to both is 
so strongly marked — might answer that question — 
even if I did not,” laughed Karl, and in a few brief 
words he explained to his father, and his mother 


236 


Parted at the Altar. 


also, who had been summoned, the story of his 
meeting with Doris. Then there was no lack of 
warmth in the doctor’s hearty greeting. 

“ Why, it sounds just like a romance, my dear,” 
declared Mrs. Lancaster, taking the lovely young 
orphan in her arms and kissing her delightedly. 
'‘Welcome — a thousand times welcome — Doris! 
You will permit me to call you that, will you not? 
It does sound so cold and formal to say Miss Field- 
ing, and you are to be one of the family, for at least 
a year yet, dear, until my husband’s guardianship of 
you expires.” 

“ Call me Doris, by all means,” the girl replied. 
“ I should like that best. I — am afraid I can never 
get used to being addressed as Miss Fielding ; even 
now, I am afraid I shall wake up and find all this 
but a dream,” said Doris, piteously. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

DORIS IN LUXURY. 

The sudden change from earning her own living 
to the luxury in which Doris found herself, would 
have dazzled almost any young girl, older and 


Doris in Luxury. 


237 


wiser than Doris, and she wondered how she had ever 
lived through that cold, dark past, — that desolate 
past, which was left behind her forevermore. 

Mrs. Lancaster made all possible haste in attend- 
ing to Doris’s wardrobe. 

“You must discard that blue merino dress of 
yours at once, my dear. The neighbors would 
never forget it if they saw you in that,” declared the 
lady. 

So the next fortnight was spent in daily excursions 
to the dry goods emporiums and establishments of 
the leading modistes. 

Doris could scarcely realize that the radiant little 
figure which her mirror reflected, robed in shim- 
mering silk, — in whose tiny, shell-like ears, and on 
whose small white hands costly diamonds glittered 
like stars, was the same Doris who had sobbed her- 
self to sleep, many and many a night, with Madame 
Delmar’s cruel, taunting words ringing in her ears: 

“ You are a miserable, dependent creature ; you 
ought to be thankful for a crust of bread, and a roof 
to cover your head, — content with my cast-off 
dresses, and that you have been given any educa- 
tion whatever.” 

Now all the world was changed for Doris. She 
was courted, petted and flattered ; a widely differ- 


238 


Parted at the Altar. 


ent personage from the timid young girl we first 
introduced to our readers. 

“ 1 am proud of you, Doris, v said Mrs. Lancaster, 
complacently, one day. “ Your beauty will create 
quite a commotion in society ; you will turn the 
heads of all the marriageable young fellows. Young 
girls of your age generally have some ideal hero 
pictured in their minds. But when your Prince 
Charming comes along, you must not be in a hurry to 
marry. A year or so will be plenty of time for that.’’ 

“ 1 shall never marry, v said Doris, paling to the 
very lips, and a look of keen distress in her dark 
blue eyes. “ Please do not. mention marriage to me 
again, Mrs. Lancaster. I shall never marry.” 

“ Fie, fie, my dear. No one but old maids whom 
nobody wants, or some creature who has been 
crossed in love, ever make such a remark as that. 
It sounds ridiculous on the lips of a pretty girl. 
You cannot rule your own heart, my dear Doris. 
Love goes where Heaven intended it should go, 
and when the right one comes along you will say to 
yourself, ‘ I can never be happy without him,’ and 
it will end as it should — in a marriage.” 

But Doris shook her curly head with a dreary 
sigh. 

That night Dr. Lancaster and his wife held quite 
a lengthy debate in their own apartments in refer- 


Doris in Luxtiry. 


2 39 


ence to Doris, and, as usual, the determined little 
lady carried the point. 

“ Doris is pretty, and is graceful as a wild flower 
is graceful, 1 grant, — but she lacks the culture that 
fits one for society,” declared Mrs. Lancaster, ener- 
getically, “and it must be attended to without 
delay. Her education in music and the higher 
branches has been sadly neglected. We must 
engage competent persons to remedy this defect at 
once.” 

And so they settled the matter. Doris was an 
apt pupil, and progressed wonderfully with her 
studies. There was one incentive above all others 
that urged Doris on in her desire to fit herself for 
the social world that lay before her — she would be 
sure to meet Frederick Thornton there ; that was 
the beginning and the end, the goal of her ambition. 

She told herself she must see him just once ; then 
she would be willing to shut herself away from the 
gay world forever after that one hour of triumph. 

No timid young girl likes to discuss those vague, 
sweet heart-thoughts to a matter of fact old lady, 
and Doris shrank from even mentioning that pitiful, 
broken love-dream to practical Mrs. Lancaster. 

Remembering Madame Delmar had declared 
Doris had eloped from the seminary, Mrs. Lancaster 
broached very carefully whether or not Doris had 


240 


Parted at the Altar. 


ever had a lover, and how she happened to leave the 
seminary to seek a position of governess in New 
York. 

“ I will speak of this mattter just once,” Doris 
replied, with a little sob in her voice. “ I do not 
like to think of it. It is like opening an old wound. 
Madame Delmar turned me from the seminary door, 
because she was tired of keeping the penniless girl 
— who was dependent on her bounty — under her 
roof longer. I was forced to go out into the world. 
And as for a lover — ah, Mrs. Lancaster, I had no 
lover. No one loved me ; no one.” 

The time came at last when Miss Fielding, Doctor 
Lancaster’s lovely ward, was finally launched upon 
the tidal wave of society. As Mrs. Lancaster had 
foreseen, she created quite a furore. Receptions, 
parties, balls, followed each other in rapid succes- 
sion, and pretty Doris was queen of them all. Yet 
she always came home with the same piteous pain 
in her lovely, childish eyes. It had been another 
evening lost out of her life, for she had not met 
Frederick Thornton. 

Believing her dead, had he married Vivian and 
taken her abroad? From the moment this idea 
occurred to her, Doris had a feverish desire to go 
abroad. 

An opportunity soon presented itself. Dr. Lan- 


Doris in Luxury. 


241 


caster received a letter one day, urging his immedi- 
ate presence in London, and it was arranged that 
his wife and Doris should accompany him on this 
flying trip. 

The next steamer brought Karl. 

“ I thought father might need me, perhaps,” he 
said ; but his mother knew better. She was sure 
Doris’s bright eyes had been the magnet. 

As time rolled on, Mrs. Lancaster began to grow 
anxious over her son ; his deep adoring love for 
Doris was so marked, while she, in return, gave him 
only a sister’s kindly friendship — nothing more. 

All in vain pretty young girls gazed at the tall, 
handsome, fair-haired young American; he had no 
eyes for them ; his whole thought, night and day, 
was of Doris — only of her. 

“ My patient love, my great devotion, must win 
love in return. I can wait for it,” he told himself 
over and over again. 

Three long years passed, and it seemed to Karl 
Lancaster he was further than ever from Doris’s love. 
If ever a woman had been born without a heart, or 
it had turned to marble in her breast, that woman 
was Doris. 

The three years spent abroad had done much for 
Doris; it had expanded her from the bud of girl 
hood into the bloom of perfect womanhood. She 


242 


Parted at the Altar. 


had been pretty as the child of seventeen. At 
twenty, taller by almost half a head, she had grown 
into the full, dazzling beauty of perfect womanhood. 

Suitors sought her hand, laying love, fame and 
fortune at her feet ; but to one and all she gave the 
same grac^pus answer: 

“ I thank you for the kind compliment you pay 
me in asking me to be your wife. I am sorry you 
love me. I shall never marry — never.” 

When Mrs. Lancaster saw Doris dismiss one lover 
after another, a strange smile came to her lips. 

“ She must really like Karl, 1 am beginning to 
believe,” she told herself. 

She did not know that long since her handsome 
son had declared his love for Doris, only to be kindly 
but firmly refused. And he knew that which his 
mother never dreamed of — long since, in the shad- 
owy past, Doris had given her heart to one who had 
not returned her love. 

“ It was only a girl’s foolish, romantic love-dream,” 
he told himself. “ In time it will fade away from 
her memory ; then I may stand some chance of win- 
ning her. 

He was true to his promise. He never breathed 
one word of love to her ; yet Doris could read it in 
his face, if she spoke one kind word to him, in the 
wistful expression of his eyes as they followed her 


Doris in Luxury. 243 

about, and the trembling of his hand as it clasped 
hers in greeting. 

“ I am sorry for poor Karl !” she often murmured, 
when she was alone with her thoughts. “ I, of all 
others in the world, know how to pity a person who 
loves one who cannot return that love. He is so 
patient, so kind ; I am sorry for him — so sorry. 
Poor Karl !” 


Leaving Doris for a little while, we must return 
to Frederick Thornton, and to that critical moment 
when he turned from the narrow path into the open 
glade, where Mr. Courtney awaited him, in com- 
pany with the gentlemen who had been selected to 
act as seconds in the duel which was to take place. 

He had barely reached the opening ere a strange 
sight burst upon his view. Scarcely a rod from 
where he stood, riveted to the spot in amazement 
and dismay, he beheld the prostrate form of his 
would-be opponent stretched, face downward, on 
the greensward, with his friends bending over him 
with grave, white faces. 

“ Had foul play been done here? If so, he of all 
others would be suspected,” Frederick told him- 
self. 


244 


Parted at the Altar. 


But he was no coward. Boldly he made his way 
up to the group standing around his prostrate foe. 

They made way for him. 

“ There will be no duel, Mr. Thornton,” explained 
one of the colonel’s friends. “ It seems that Colonel 
Courtney worked himself into such a passion of 
fury that he has been attacked by a very severe 
apoplectic stroke. We are about to improvise a 
stretcher and convey him home at once.” 

Deep and sincere was the regret Frederick 
felt for the colonel’s affliction. 

“ I should never have aimed my revolver at him, 
gentlemen,” he said. “ I had intended to fire into 
the air.” 

As the duel was thus far practically abandoned, 
Frederick retraced his steps homeward. 

That night he carried out his original intention 
of leaving Thornton Villa, taking care to send his 
address to the colonel. 

His sisters wept, and his mother, clinging to the 
neck of her handsome, manly son, refused to be 
comforted. 

“ You are going abroad, Frederick,” she said. 
“ You may be gone long years. Perhaps I shall 
never see you again.” 

“ Nonsense, mother,” he declared. “ I shall not 


Doris and Frederick Meet Again. 245 


be gone longer than three years — four at farthest. 
The time will soon slip around.” 

“ And is it quite true you and Vivian have parted 
forever, my son ?” she asked, wistfully. “ Are you 
quite sure you do not love Vivian ?” 

“ Never speak to me of love again, mother,” he 
answered, huskily. “ My heart is buried in little 
Doris’s grave.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

DORIS AND FREDERICK MEET AGAIN. 

For three long and weary years Frederick Thorn- 
ton traveled incessantly ; but his great effort to for- 
get Doris was all in vain. The sweet, dimpled, 
girlish face was between him and the sunshine — 
filled his thoughts — made his life one long regret. 

“ How strange it was,” he often told himself, 
“ that he had discovered his love for poor, pretty 
Doris in the very hour that he had lost her so 
cruelly !” 

Three years had made little change in Frederick 
Thornton. He was the same handsome Frederick 
as of old ; all save the gay, laughing sparkle in the 


246 


Parted at the Altar. 


dark, expressive eyes. That had died out of them 
forever, leaving them thoughtful and gloomy, 
with a look of brooding melancholy in them that 
never left them. 

Pretty young girls sighed and smiled at the hand- 
some American all in vain. He seemed to be 
oblivious to the charms of fair women, or else 
marble-hearted, they often declared. 

After three years of incessant traveling, fate 
brought him, one sunlit June morning, to the little 
village of Kent, lying among the Kentish hills. He 
was delighted to find there was a party of Americans 
stopping at the villa across the way. Strolling out 
upon the piazza of the hostelry, the first person 
whom his eyes rested upon was his old college 
chum, Karl Lancaster. 

“Well, by all that’s wonderful, if * it isn’t Fred 
Thornton !” exclaimed Karl, cheerily, as he wrung 
his old friend’s hand in the greatest delight. “ This 
is, indeed, a surprise. Where in the world did you 
drop from ?” 

“ I came up from London for a few weeks’ quiet,” 
exclaimed Frederick, adding: “I return to New 
York at the end of the month.” 

“ The deuce )^ou do !” exclaimed Karl, impuls- 
ively. “ Do you think I shall consent to lose my 


Doris and Frederick Meet Again. 


old chum so easily? No, indeed ! You will make 
a valuable acquisition to our little party/’ 

“ Who is there among your party ?” inquired 
Frederick. 

“ Only my mother and father, father’s ward — Miss 
Fielding — and myself. We have just got rid of two 
noble lords and an earl who persisted in following 
us about from place to place, having been smitten 
with father’s ward ; but finding their suit useless, 
one by one gave up in despair, and went his way.” 

Frederick smiled. 

“You must come over and dine with us to-day, 
and I will present you to Miss Fielding ; but I warn 
you beforehand, do not attempt to fall in love with 
her.” 

“ No doubt you have hopes in that .direction,” 
smiled Thornton. “ But you need not fear a rival 
in me. I have gotten over being a beauty wor- 
shiper. I always avoid women, when I can.” 

“ I hope you are not going to turn out a cynical 
woman-hater,” declared Karl. “ That would never 
do. Never! 

“ I shall expect you to dine with us to-day, and 
I shall not take ‘ No ’ for an answer,” said Karl 
again, at parting. 

“ In that case, it would be useless to give any 
other answer than one in the affirmative,” smiled 


248 


Parted at the Altar. 


Frederick; “so I shall probably put in an appear- 
ance some time during the afternoon. Kindly 
remember me to your father and mother.” 

After a little the friends parted, Karl going 
toward the villa, and Frederick Thornton strolling 
leisurely down the flower-strewn path that led 
toward the river that lay smiling beyond. How 
long he stood there, in a dreamy reverie, on the 
primrose-bordered bank he never knew. He was 
aroused at length by the sound of hurried footsteps, 
and turning his head slightly, a sight met his view 
that he never forgot until his dying day. From an 
abrupt curve in the path — seemingly from out of 
the very heart of a thicket of roses — stepped a 
young girl, a tall, slim, lovely creature, graceful as 
a fawn, with a face so radiantly lovely in its fair, 
dimpled, girlish beauty as to almost take his breath 
away at the first fatal glance. Surely the summer 
sunlight had never fallen upon a fairer picture than 
this beautiful, golden-haired young girl. 

She was hurrying along so swiftly, she did not 
perceive the tall, handsome stranger leaning against 
the trunk of a tree, gazing at her so intently. 

She passed so near Frederick, he could have put 
out his hand and touched her dress ; and suddenly, 
in that instant, a passing, sportive breeze caught the 
broad sun-hat that was tilted down over her curls, 


Doris and Frederick Meet Again. 


lifted it from her head, and hurled it directly at 
Frederick Thornton’s feet. 

Quickly he stooped to recover it. 

“ Permit me,” he said, extending the hat by its 
blue ribbons with one hand, and raising his own with 
a courteous bow with the other. 

The young girl started back with a low cry of 
terror, and looked into his face, clutching one hand 
tightly over her heart. As the reader has already 
imagined, it was Doris. 

After three long years she stood face to face with 
Frederick Thornton again. And she saw, too, that 
he did not recognize her, so great was the change in 
her. Ah, it was little wonder he did not, believing 
Doris to be lying cold in her grave on the other side 
of the blue, rolling Atlantic. He heard the low, 
gasping cry, and saw the blanching of the lovely 
dimpled cheeks. 

“ I beg a thousand pardons if I have startled you,” 
he said, eagerly. “ 1 fancied you must have seen 
me standing here as you came down the path.” 

Doris received the hat from his hand with a little 
nervous bow. She could not trust herself to answer 
him, so great was her emotion ; she almost fancied 
she would fall down dead at his feet in the long, 
primrose-studded grass. 


250 


Parted at the Altar. 


What reply she made, she never knew. Turning 
away, she hurried swiftly down the path. 

“ Frederick Thornton !” she murmured, pantingly, 
when she was quite out of sight and hearing — “ Ah, 
Heaven, what can he be doing here ?” 

She was so strangely excited, flushing and paling 
by turns, that she quite alarmed Mrs. Lancaster 
when she returned to the villa. 

‘‘Why, what is the matter, my dear Doris?” she 
exclaimed, in dismay. “ Really, you look as though 
you had seen a ghost.” Before Doris could reply 
she went on quickly : “ I want you to look your best 
this evening, Doris dear, for Karl brings an old 
friend to dine with us — a Mr. Thornton. He was a 
great friend of Karl’s at college. I have known his 
family intimately for years.” 

“ You will have to excuse me this evening, Mrs. 
Lancaster,” pleaded Doris. “ I have the most 
severe headache I have ever had in all my life.” 

Looking into the flushed face and unnaturally 
brilliant eyes, who could doubt it ? 

“ Lie down and take a short rest, my dear,” sug- 
gested Mrs. Lancaster. “You will be all right by 
evening.” 

Still Doris lingered. 

How she longed to ask if Vivian was with him, 


Doris and Frederick Meet Again . 251 


but pride forbade. Of course, believing himself 
free, he had married Vivian long since. 

Frederick Thornton had stood gazing after that 
slim, girlish figure with the strangest sensation at 
his heart that he had ever experienced. 

“ Pshaw !” he muttered, impatiently, striking a 
match on the sole of his boot, and proceedings 
light a cigar. “ Somehow the features of that young 
girl’s face remind me strangely of poor little Doris. 
Perhaps Doris would have grown into just such a 
superb creature, if she had lived. Can that be Miss 
Fielding, I wonder?” he mused. 

During the remainder of the morning Frederick 
Thornton caught himself thinking continually of the 
young girl he had met in the glen. 

He presented himself punctually at the villa. The 
doctor and his good wife, and Karl, welcomed him 
cordially ; but the face he longed to see (if, indeed, 
the pretty young girl he had met was Miss Fielding) 
was not there. 

“ I am sorry Miss Fielding has a headache, and 
cannot be presented to you,” said Mrs. Lancaster, 
smilingly. “ However, this is not to be your last 
visit to the villa ; we shall expect to see a great deal 
of you while you are staying in the village.” 

“ Perhaps I have met Miss Fielding already,” 
replied Frederick, smiling ; and he proceeded to 


252 


Parted at the Altar. 


recount the adventure of the morning, minutely 
describing the young girl. 

“ Yes, that is my husband’s ward,” declared Mrs. 
Lancaster. “ How shrewd you are at guessing, my 
dear Mr. Thornton.” 

From that day Frederick Thornton found an 
opportunity to call every day at the villa, but by 
some strange chance he was never able to find the 
doctor’s lovely young ward there. Once he fancied 
he saw the flutter of a white dress leaving the library 
by one door as he entered by another. 

At last he surprised her one day by entering, quite 
unobserved, with Mrs. Lancaster, an hour earlier 
than he usually called. For a single instant the 
room seemed whirling around Doris. As in a dream 
she heard Mrs. Lancaster go through the formula of 
the introduction. She heard Frederick Thornton 
say, “ I am happy to meet you, Miss Fielding,” then 
to her dismay, Mrs. Lancaster was called away, and 
they were left alone together. 

He had looked into her eyes, heard her voice, and 
had not recognized her; and she told herself, with a 
bitter smile, that she would never betray her iden- 
tity to him— never ! He should never know that she 
was the same Doris to whom he had been bound by 
that fatal midnight marriage, and who had deserted 
her so cruelly at the very altar almost. He had not 


A Shadow. 


253 


\ 


grieved to have the fetters that bound him to herself 
snapped asunder by her death, she felt sure. Of 
course, he was Vivian’s husband long since, and 
could, therefore, be nothing to her now — less than 
nothing — and quite unconsciously her face grew 
cold, hard and haughty with superb scorn as he 
gazed at her. 

At that moment Karl entered the drawing-room, 
and Doris took the opportunity to escape from his 
presence instantly. 

Frederick Thornton looked after Miss Fielding in 
wonder not unmixed with pique. Why did this 
lovely young girl take such an aversion to him at 
first sight? Why did she avoid him so persistently ? 
he asked himself, vexedly. He could not understand, 
yet, despite this knowledge, he seemed drawn as by 
a magnet each day to the villa. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A SHADOW. 

That one glance at the dark, handsome face of 
Frederick Thornton awakened all the old bitter- 
sweet#nemories in Doris’s heart again. 


254 


Parted at the Altar. 


She tried to avoid him, but from that hour Fred- 
erick Thornton followed Doris about like a shadow. 

One evening they met at a grand ball. Doris had 
heard them say he would not be there. Therefore 
she was much surprised to see him standing by her 
side. 

“Are you engaged for the next waltz, Miss 
Fielding?” he asked, taking the pearl and gold tab- 
let from her hand. 

Doris drew back, her lovely face paling. Even 
her lips lost their color. Waltz with him ! Ah, no ! 
She could not. 

How could she feel his breath upon her cheek, 
the clasp of his strong arm around her, and know 
that he was another’s — that he had lost her forever- 
more ? 

“ I should prefer dancing any other than a waltz 
with you, Mr. Thornton,” she said. 

He certainly felt piqued. Any other young 
lady in that grand, glittering ball room would have 
been pleased to have waltzed with him, he well knew. 

“ May I put my name down for the next quadrille, 
then?” he asked, with charming grace; and as 
Doris could find no reasonable excuse for refusing- 

o 

him, she bowed a cold assent. 

To her horror, she found it was, after all, a waltz- 
quadrille. She could not escape from hin* when 


A Shadow. 


255 


they were out on the floor together. She was 
obliged to go through the dance with him. Yet 
Frederick Thornton could not help but notice how 
she shrank from the touch of his hand and the clasp 
of his arm. 

And again he asked himself in the deepest 
wonder, why had this young girl taken such an 
aversion to him. 

That one waltz-quadrille undid the work of years. 
Doris had thought that she had schooled her 
heart against him ; but love was not to be disci- 
plined thus easily. She realized that the Doris of 
twenty loved handsome Frederick Thornton a 
thousand times more deeply than the Doris of 
seventeen had done. That was childish, beautiful 
love; this was the full, passionate strength of a 
woman’s love — the love that blesses or curses 
human hearts. 

From that hour Frederick Thornton followed 
Doris about like a shadow. He took great care to 
place himself in every set with her. If she strolled 
out on the balcony, on looking up she was sure to 
find him near her. If she seated herself at the 
piano in the grand drawing-room, she would find 
him at her side, ready to turn the music for her. 

She curled her crimson lips in the deepest scorn 
as she looked at him. He had been untrue to the 


256 


Parted at the Altar. 


memory of poor hapless Doris. Now he would be 
untrue to Vivian’s memory by sunning himself in 
another’s smiles, she told herself. 

“ Why was Vivian not with him ?” she wondered. 
Then she remembered it was not unusual for gentle- 
men to go abroad without their wives. No doubt 
Vivian had not chosen to come. 

There was one who looked on with darkening 
brow as Frederick Thornton hovered at Doris’s 
side ; one who turned away as though the sight 
were bitter pain to him, although he had noticed 
Doris did not encourage these attentions. Karl 
Lancaster could not endure the thought of Doris’s 
smiling upon another. 

A sudden coldness sprang up between the two 
young men, and Karl was pleased when his father 
announced his intention of returning home. 

A fortnight later, the Lancasters took up their 
summer quarters at the Ocean Beach Hotel, New- 
port, and Doris was at once proclaimed the beauty 
and belle of the season. To Doris’s dismay, Fred- 
erick Thornton followed them. 

Again he sought and improved every opportunity 
of cultivating beautiful Miss Fielding’s acquaint- 
ance. There was a certain dash of romance about 
it, owing to the fact the girl seemed to detest and 
avoid him so. 


A Shadow . 


257 


Frederick Thornton was by no means vain. Yet 
he was not blind to his own accomplishments, and 
the favor in which he was held by the charming 
belles who graced the beach. 

It was quite useless for bewitching young girls to 
single him out as the handsomest and best catch of 
the season. He was proof against all their pretty 
arts of coquetry, their coy blushes and blandish- 
ments. It was soon whispered about that he had no 
eyes nor ears for any one save the beauty and belle, 
Miss Fielding. He was not to be won, that was 
evident. 

“ Why does he follow me about so persistent^, I 
wonder ?” Doris often thought to herself. It often 
occurred to her to warn those pretty girls that the 
idol they were so eager to worship was married ; 
that he had no right to give to the world the 
impression that he was single — free to woo and win 
them. 

Mrs. Lancaster watched young Mr. Thornton’s 
persistent wooing with anxiety for her own son’s 
sake. Once she attempted to discover the state of 
Doris’s heart by close questioning in regard to her 
ardent admirer, but Doris turned such a pale, 
pained face toward her that she cried out in alarm. 

“ Do not mention Frederick Thornton’s name to 
me. I hate him,” she said, in a quick, stifled voice ; 


253 


Parted at the Altar . 


and before Mrs Lancaster could recover from the 
astonishment of witnessing this vehement outburst 
of passion from the usually quiet Doris, the girl had 
quitted the room. 

That day a strange, reckless resolve came to 
Doris. She would cease avoiding Frederick Thorn- 
ton so. She would learn to control herself better 
than this, that the sound of his voice, the touch of 
his hand, the glance of his eyes agitated her so. It 
almost seemed to Doris that the whole world must 
read her secret. She loved him! 

That afternoon, when Frederick Thornton joined 
a group of young girls on the sea shore, among 
whom was Doris, he noticed with a thrill of pleasure 
that she did not turn and walk abruptly away as 
usual ; and he flattered himself that the willful 
beauty, who had taken such an aversion to him, 
was beginning to look upon him more kindly. 

The group of chattering young girls made way 
for him. He flung himself down on the white beach 
at Doris’s feet ; but the graceful, golden head, after 
a slight inclination, was turned proudly away from 
the face gazing up into her own. 

“ I want you to settle a dispute for us, Mr. Thorn- 
ton, if you will,” said a bewitching little brunette, 
laying a little mite of a hand, in a half-careless, half- 
caressing way, on his arm. “ I am trying to induce 


A Shadow . 


259 


these timid girls to take a dip in the sea waves with 
me. I have already half persuaded Miss Fielding. 
If she goes, the rest will follow. Now, add your 
entreaties to mine, and tell them the sea waves will 
be delightful, this terribly warm afternoon.” 

Frederick Thornton looked up in swift alarm. 

“ 1 think Miss Fielding was quite right in hesitat- 
ing to trust the water to-day ; there is danger in its 
wooing. Do you see how high the breakers dash 
on the shore ? I have been told that it betokens a 
swift, treacherous undercurrent.” 

“ Oh, how cruel of you to say that, Mr. Thornton !” 
pouted the little brunette, who was quite an expert 
swimmer among the breakers, and longed to show 
her dexterity in battling with the huge waves. “ Of 
course your opinion will decide Miss Fielding, and 
my eloquent arguing of an hour’s duration has been 
all in vain.” 

“I think not,” returned Doris, very quietly. “I 
have made up my mind to go into the surf with 
you.” 

The little brunette looked delighted ; Frederick 
Thornton looked as he felt — much annoyed. 

“ Why do you wish to court danger, Miss Field- 
ing?” he asked, in a low voice. “ You can see for 
yourself how heavy the sea is. I beg of you do not 
be tempted into the surf,” 


26 o 


Parted at the Altar. 


Doris crested her beautiful golden head, looking 
down at him with cold, proud eyes. She would 
have gone now, even if death itself stared her in the 
face, just to show him how lightly she valued his 
opinion. 

“ Why do you take so much interest in this mat- 
ter?” asked Doris, sharply. 

The words, “ Because I love you so madly,” sprang 
to his lips ; but he forced them back. This was 
neither the time nor the place to utter them. 

He smiled, and a tender look came into hfls fine, 
dark eyes. 

“ Would I not lift my voice, stretch out my hands, 
to save a rash child from rushing headlong into 
danger? or turn aside from its course a bird that 
was seemingly bent upon fluttering straight into a 
trap ? You are like the child and the bird ; you 
must be saved from the fruits of your own folly.” 

With a haughty toss of her golden, curly head, 
Doris picked up her book and lace sunshade, and 
walked away. 

Frederick looked thoughtfully out over the water. 
In that moment his mind had flown back to the hap- 
less girl-bride who had found death in the cold, cruel 
waves. The impulse came to him to follow Miss 
Fielding, and tell her the story of poor, hapless little 
Doris. It was strange that, in the presence of this 


A Shadow . 


261 


beautiful girl, whom he had learned to love so pas- 
sionately, his mind always went back to poor little 
Doris, who had loved him so well ; Miss Fielding, in 
some vague way, reminded him so much, at times, of 
Doris, although Miss Fielding was a beauty and 
belle, surrounded by wealth, luxury and admirers ; 
and little Doris was only a timid school-girl, whose 
girlish heart he had won unknowingly. 

A half hour later, as he paced the veranda of the^ 
hotel, looking out seaward, he saw a group of 
bathers battling with the breakers. 

His heart almost stood still. He recognized the 
foremost one, upon whose golden head the sunlight 
fell ; it was Miss Fielding. 

How madly the huge waves dashed over the four 
young girls who clung to the ropes with their 
slender, white hands. 

“They have found the water much too rough for 
them ; just as I predicted,” he mused, strolling 
mechanically down the beach. 

Doris saw him coming toward them, and a reck 
less, defiant light flamed into her blue eyes. 

“ I will show him how little I think of his warn- 
ing, ” she thought, striking out fully a rod ahead of 
her companions. 

Alas ! for willful defiant, Doris, it was a fatal 
move. All in an instant she realized it. The great 


262 


Parted at the Altar . 


waves carried her far out of the reach of the 
protecting ropes, and in a single instant more the 
treacherous undercurrent dragged her down. 

Hoarse cries echoed from hundreds of throats as 
the horrified spectators realized what had hap- 
pened. Before a life-boat could be put out the girl 
would be swept out to sea. 

But in that moment of horror a young man had 
torn off his coat, and sprang into the waves to her 
rescue. 

“ Courage !” he shouted. “ I will save you, or 
die !” 

The young man was Frederick Thornton. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

SAVED BY LOVE. 

In an instant the greatest excitement prevailed. 
Was the young man mad, to risk his life so reck- 
lessly among the wild, dashing breakers ? they asked 
themselves, breathlessly. 

They strained their eyes and held their breath. 
It certainly looked as though two lives would be 
lost instead of one. Prayers went up from women’s 
hearts; men muttered, hoarsely, “ God strengthen 


Saved by Love . 


263 


his arm!” and through the moments that followed 
they watched with bated breath, the intense silence 
broken only by the loud, hoarse murmurs of the 
breaker. 

Frederick Thornton was young and strong, and 
an expert swimmer, but the odds were fearfully 
against him. He struck out bravely for the shining 
mark that was drifting out so swiftly to sea. 

“ Courage ! courage !” he shouted to her again. 
“ 1 will save you or die with you !” 

Doris heard him, and the words inspired her with 
new life. She held out her white arms to him with 
a wild, piteous cry, and then a huge wave dashed 
over her, completely concealing her. 

The mad water, hissing, boiling and churning 
around him, seemed to laugh in wild glee at his 
efforts to cheat them of their prey. 

Down, down he struck after her, swifter than 
arrow-flight, drenched, choked, blinded by wave 
and spray, and an instant later he turned and struck 
boldly for the shore, holding the form of Doris in 
his arms. But reaching the shore was no easy task. 
The great waves beat him back, and his herculean 
efforts seemed to prove futile, as, sure as fate, he 
realized they were drifting out to sea. 

He saw the life-boat that was put out, but could 
it reach them ? Could his strength last that long ? 


264 


Parted at the Altar. 


He was strong and sinewy, yet it was no light task 
to hold that heavy burden with his left arm, striking 
boldly out with the right. 

All this occurred to the girl who clung to him in 
pale bravery. 

“ Leave me, Frederick,” she gasped, piteously. 
“ It will be all you can do to save yourself.” 

“You think T am coward enough for that?” he 
cried out, with a sharp accent of pain. “You think 
I would save myself and let you perish?” And she 
answered, simply : 

“ Why not? It is all you can do. The life-boat 
can never reach us.” 

“ I'll never leave you while I have life ! You 
would be swept down in a minute. We will live or 
die together !’’ he cried, holding her fast, and bat- 
tling heroically with the mad waves. 

“ Go ! — leave me to my fate !” she panted, wildly. 
“ Go — for my sake, Frederick — because I — love — 
you !” 

And with those words she fell back in his arms in 
a dead faint. 

Perhaps it was those words that imbued him with 
new life, and buoyed him up until the life-boat 
reached him. 

Five minutes later, amidst lusty cheers and glad 
cries of women, Frederick Thornton laid Doris down 


Saved by Love . 


265 


on the white sand among the motley throng that 
had assembled there. 

From that hour handsome Frederick Thornton 
was the hero and idol of the belles of Newport. 

It was a week before Doris was sufficiently recov- 
ered to venture down to the parlor to thank him for 
saving her life. 

It was evening; the chandeliers were lighted, 
throwing a soft, mellow light over the marble halls 
and vast parlors, and out upon the stretch of beach 
beyond, lying so white in the clear, bright star- 
light. 

Doris saw him out on the veranda, pacing to and 
fro, smoking a cigar. Silently she crossed the ver- 
anda and stood before him, like a vision in her 
clinging dress of soft, fleecy white. 

“ I am come to thank you for what you have done 
for me, Mr. Thornton,” she said, with an uncon- 
scious flutter in her voice, extending both her hands. 
“ I thank you so much words will not express my 
indebtedness. Why did you do it? It might have 
cost you your own life. Oh, why did you do so 
much for me, Mr. Thornton?” 

He took both her trembling hands. 

“We will walk down on the beach together, and 
I will tell you why,” he answered. 

How smooth the treacherous, smiling sea looked 


266 


Parted at the Altar. 


under the brilliant starlight. How clear the silver 
moon looked, coyly hiding her sweet face behind 
the soft, white clouds, like a blushing bride behind 
her white veil. What a glamor there was over 
land and sea as they walked silently along under the 
mellow moonbeams, listening to the musical mur- 
mur of the sighing waves. 

Suddenly Frederick Thornton stood still, looking 
down into the lovely face, his hand involuntarily 
closing and holding prisoner the little trembling one 
that lay on his arm. 

“ You asked my why I risked my life to save 
yours. I will answer you now. It was because I 
love you with all the strength of my heart, with all 
the strength of my soul. Without you, life would 
be a blank ; with you, it would be a paradise. I love 
you with the mightiest love man ever felt for 
woman — a love that would brave all the dangers of 
earth and sea to win you. You told me out on the 
water that you — ” 

The sentence never was finished. Doris turned 
upon him like a flash. 

“ Your love !" she panted. “ Heaven help the 
woman who believes in it. It is as false and cruel 
as death itself. Hush ! Not another word. I will 
not hear it. Never speak to me again. I would put 
the whole world between us if I could. In daring 


Saved by Love. 


267 


to speak to me of love, you have canceled the debt 
of gratitude I owed you.” 

Before Frederick Thornton could find his voice 
to reply, she had fled. He found himself standing 
alone, lost in a maze of bewilderment on the 
beach. 

“Am I mad, or do I dream?” he cried, hoarsely. 
“ My love — an insult ! What can she mean ?” 

Then suddenly a strange light seemed to break in 
upon him. He was Banker Thornton’s son, and 
heir to a million at his father’s death; but in his 
own right at present he had but a moderate allow- 
ance, while Miss Fielding was already an heiress in 
her own right. 

“ Did she think I meant to woo and win her for 
the sake of her wealth ?” 

Anger and wounded pride came to his rescue, 
blunting the sting of her stormy words. If there 
was one class of men he had always detested above 
others it was fortune-hunters. And the thought that 
he should be classed as one of those despicable 
creatures cut to his heart like the sharp thrust of a 
dagger. 

The next morning the deplorable news was circu- 
lated among the young ladies that Mr. Thornton had 
left the hotel the night before. 

“Oh, how provoking !” they chorused in a breath. 


268 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ And the season at its height, too. How we shall 
miss him at the hops ! He was a charming gallant. 
How provoking that the attraction was not strong 
enough to keep him here to the end of the season.” 

And more than one glance was maliciously turned 
toward Doris. 

Doris turned quietly to the pretty blonde who 
had made the remark. 

“ Perhaps he went because the attraction else- 
where was strongest — as it should be in his case. I 
believe Mr. Thornton to — be — married.” 

“ Married !” echoed the little group, in amazement. 
“ Surely that cannot be, Miss Fielding. What rea- 
son have you for thinking so, and who is the lady?” 

“ Some three years ago he was betrothed to Miss 
Vivian Courtney. He loved her — and I have every 
reason to believe — married her,” returned Doris, 
in a low, faint voice. 

“ Indeed you are mistaken,” declared one of the 
group, briskly. “ He was engaged to Miss Court- 
ney, it is quite true, but for some unexplained reason, 
the marriage was broken off. He went abroad, and 
about that time her father died of a fit of apoplexy. 
A year later, after waiting in vain for her handsome 
lover to return and make up their quarrel, pretty, 
dark-eyed Vivian married a wealthy sea captain for 
his gold. They had anything but a happy life of it, 


Saved by Love. 


269 


and at last he died, and his young- widow is spend- 
ing the money as fast as she can. I read in one of 
the society journals she was expected here this sea- 
son. No doubt she has heard that her old lover is 
here, and is following him up. And, learning that 
handsome Frederick Thornton has taken French 
leave, taking to himself the friendly warning to 
‘beware of vidders.’ A wise man knows better 
than to encourage them.” 

Doris listened like one turned suddenly to stone. 
The long porch with its groups of promenaders, 
the white beach and the long stretch of restless sea 
beyond, seemed to whirl around her. Ah, Heaven ! 
had she heard aright, or was this a cruel mockery 
of the senses? Vivian and Frederick had parted — 
three — years — ago? Ah, surely it could not have 
been ! They loved each other too well for that. 
And believing himself free to woo and win Vivian, 
what had come between them ? 

Could it be that his conscience had smitten him 
when he came face to face that night with the poor 
child-bride whom he had married only to desert, 
and did remorse overcome him with the knowledge 
she had sought death to set him free ? 

And was it Heaven’s retribution upon him, she 
wondered, that he should meet her again, and know- 


Parted at the Altar . 


270 


ing her not, — she was so changed in name, face and 
fortune— fall desperately in love with her? 

That he did love her now, she could not 
doubt! Had he not periled his life for hers? Was 
there ever a stronger test of love than that? And 
she had sent him away— oh, cruel, cruel! 

And yet, the spirit of that other Doris called out 
to her for vengeance ! He must suffer as she had 
suffered. He must feel, pang for pang, the cruel 
torture of unrequited love, such as she had felt in 
the horror of that never-to-be-forgotten hour when 
kindly strangers, pitying her youth and her friend- 
lessness, had broken the heart-rending truth to her 
— that he had forsaken her. 

♦ 

CHAPTER XXX. 

PARTED AGAIN. 

“ When I forget the past, then I will forgive him 
—never until then,” Doris thought, bitterly. 

She tried to take up the old life again ; tried to 
be as happy as she was before Frederick Thornton 
crossed her path for the second time. But it was 


271 


Parted Again . 


a task beyond her accomplishment. A voice was 
forever crying out to her : 

“ You have won his love at last. Why did you 
break his heart and your own too, by sending him 
away from you ?” 

The thought that poor, hapless Doris of the past 
was avenged brought her no comfort. Should she 
write to him and recall him ? He was still her hus- 
band ; yes, her husband ! Her heart gave a great, 
sudden thrill at the thought. 

“ No, no, she would not recall him. Her pride 
rebelled against this. He should not have gone 
away so hastily. 

The following week, among the new arrivals, 
came the charming young widow, Vivian Carsdale. 
That evening, for the first time since that cruel 
event, which had happened three long years before, 
Vivian and Doris met again, face to face. Vivian 
turned a ghastly white, even under her plentiful 
supply of pearl rouge. 

“ Who is that young girl ?” she cried, inco- 
herently, turning to one of the ladies standing near, 
and indicating Doris. 

“ That? Why, Miss Fielding — the belle of New- 
port !” returned her companion, gazing admiringly 
after Doris's tall, slim, graceful figure. “ Why, how 


272 


Parted at the Altar . 


white you look, Mrs. Carsdale ! What can be the 
matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost.’' 

“ I almost imagine I have,” retorted Vivian, turn- 
ing abruptly away. 

“Was there ever a face so like?” muttered 
Vivian, when she found herself alone in her own 
boudoir. “ If I did not know that Doris was sleep- 
ing under the waves, I should say that the girl is 
Doris, older, and grown taller, with the same 
features, yet a thousand times more beautiful.” 

She took great care to place herself near Doris 
the next day, where she could listen to her voice, 
observe every play of those mobile features ; and 
again it struck Vivian as to how like this girl's 
voice was to that of Doris. 

In that same hour these two, whose paths had 
crossed each other so strangely, were presented to 
each other. 

“You remind me so strangely of one whom I 
used to know,” said Vivian, sweetly, “that, do you 
know, I am almost lost in wonder sometimes, the 
similarity is so striking.” 

She was watching Doris narrowly, and saw the 
flash and the look of confusion that crossed her 
lovely face. 

The more Vivian talked to Miss Fielding, the 


Parted A gam. 


2 73 


more a certain wild idea that had taken possession 
of her became strengthened in her mind. 

Very ingeniously Vivian led the conversation 
around to education. 

“Where were you educated, Miss Fielding?” she 
asked, suddenly. 

And almost instantly, without stopping to think, 
Doris had uttered the fatal words that sprang to her 
lips : 

“ At Madame Delmar’s seminary, Beech Grove, 
Maryland.” 

Vivian uttered a little stifling scream. All her 
doubts now verged into assurances. With lighten- 
like rapidity, she turned upon the shrinking girl 
before her. No change of appearance, nothing in 
this world, could have veiled Doris’s indentity from 
the rival who had hated her with such a bitter 
hatred three long years ago. 

“ I know you. You cannot deceive me ,” she cried, 
shrilly. “You are Doris Brandon, the girl who 
stole my lover from me, because I trusted you to 
deliver a letter to him. You are not dead, then. 
You have risen from the grave to come between us 
again. Now that I think of it, the body supposed 
to have be£n drowned was never found. Why 
are you here sailing under false colors? Miss 


Parted at the Altar . 


274 

Fielding , indeed ! You shall be denounced as an 
impostor before to-morrow’s sun rises.” 

Like a whirlwind, she turned and left Doris stand- 
ing stunned, dazed, bewildered, on the sunlit 
veranda. Like one suddenly stricken blind, she 
slowly groped her way to her own room. 

“What did Vivian intend to do?” she asked her- 
self, with a great gasping sob. Had it been such a 
terrible sin, when — 

“ Mad from life’s history, 

Glad to death’s mystery,” 

in a frantic moment she had flung herself into the 
water ? 

She knew how bitterly such an action would be con- 
demned — that the verdict of the world would be — No 
matter how hard she had found life, she should have 
taken up her cross with patience and resignation. 

This, then, was what Vivian meant ; and more, 
having been saved from a watery grave, she should 
have let that fact become known. What if, believ- 
ing her dead, Frederick Thornton had married 
again? He would have been innocent of all wrong 
intent before the Great White Throne^ and ^ — yes, 
she — would have to answer for it before an offended 
God. She could see now that it had been all 


Parted Again. 


275 


wrong, keeping the fact that she still lived from her 
husband. 

That he did not love her was no excuse. She saw 
it all now in quite a different light from what she 
had ever thought of it before. 

What a sensation there would be on the morrow, 
when Vivian revealed all. All the world would 
know that she was a forsaken bride ; that the man 
she had married had deserted her at the very altar 
almost. And they would say, too, that, in after 
years, when the child-bride (whom he had married 
so hastily, repenting of the rash deed even while the 
solemn marriage service was being uttered) was 
changed beyond recognition, she threw herself in 
his way under an assumed name, won his love, and 
trampled it under her feet. This had been her plan 
of vengeance, and a most ignoble vengeance it had 
been. 

“Yes, they would say all that of me !” moaned 
Doris, “ and I could never endure that.” 

Sooner or later the story would reach Frederick 
Thornton’s ears, and, oh, how shocked he would be. 

“ Better that he should hear this from me than 
from the lips of a stranger,” muttered Doris, pacing 
excitedly up and down her room, wringing her 
little white jeweled hands then pressing them 
tightly over her throbing heart. “ Yes, yes, I will 


276 


Parted at the Altar. 


write to him, confessing all ; then I will go away so 
far he can never find me.” 

Seating herself before her writing-desk, with 
trembling hand and face as white as death, she 
began her letter to Frederick Thornton. 

It was a long, closely-written letter, blotted with 
heavy, splashing tears. 

In it, she went back to that fatal night when she 
followed him and Vivian through the grounds of the 
villa, and had suddenly sprung out before them, 
throwing off her disguise, crying out that she, his 
mother’s companion, was the bride he had wedded, 
only to cruelly desert. 

And how, in the intense excitement of the 
moment, she had turned from him, without waiting 
to hear one word of defence, if he had any to make 
for such an action, and had flung herself headlong 
into the waves. How she had been saved from 
death, and had made her way to the great, cruel 
city of New York, where the accident befell her 
from which Karl Lancaster was instrumental in 
rescuing her. 

She also told him of the great discovery that had 
ensued — that she , the poor little dependent, who had 
suffered all the pangs of poverty, was an heiress— 
the daughter of Hulbert Brandon Fielding, an 
English milord. 


Parted Again. 


2 77 


She told how the impulse to confess who she 
was had been strong upon her when, after an 
absence of three long years, she had suddenly met 
him abroad that day. And how, seeing he did not 
recognize her, because she had changed so greatly 
during the length of time that had intervened, she 
had made up her mind never to reveal her identity, 
come what might. Also of the idea that had taken 
possession of her that, loving Vivian as he had 
loved her in the past, and believing himself free, no 
doubt he had wedded her. She had been of this 
opinion when they were talking together out on the 
sands on that night he left Newport so suddenly. 

She then told of her subsequent discovery that 
he had parted from Vivian forever on that fatal 
night three years ago ; and of Vivian’s arrival at 
the hotel, and how she had recognized her, declar- 
ing that on the morrow the whole world should 
know her story. 

“ I could never endure that,” she wrote, piteously, 
“ and so I am going away — going so far that no one 
who has ever looked upon my face will ever behold 
me again. 

“ Vivian accuses me of endeavoring to come 
between you and her again. This I earnestly, sol- 
emnly declare is untrue. It is this which sends me 
into exile. 


2 yS 


Parted at the Altar . 


“ Knowing that I am the same Doris whom you 
once so despised, I know you will cease to think 
kindly of her whom you knew as Miss Fielding. 

“ When we were out breasting the mad waves 
together — when you were periling your life to save 
mine — again the impulse was strong within me to 
cry out that I was Doris — poor, unhappy Doris ; 
but, with the words on my lips, I fell back into a 
deep swoon. Death must have ensued had not 
your strong arms borne me to safety. 

“Forget and forgive me if you can. We shall 
never meet again. The world is wide. I wrecked 
your life once. I cannot wreck it a second time. 

“ Farewell forever. Your unhappy, Doris.” 

With hands cold as death Doris sealed her letter, 
addressed it, and took it down to the mail box in 
the office. 

“ Now,” she said, as she stood again in her own 
room,” nothing is left for me to do but go quietly 
away, secretly and alone. When Vivian tells her 
story, they will not find me here.” 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

A STRANGE REVELATION. 

Great was Mrs. Lancaster’s surprise to receive a 
hurriedly-written note from Doris the next morning 
stating she had been called suddenly away, and 
would write to her when she reached her destina- 
tion. 

“ I cannot understand this strange freak of Doris,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Lancaster, in amazement, as she 
passed the note over to her husband. 

“ Where do you suppose Doris has gone ?” she 
cried. “It seems almost incredible to believe. 
Left Newport — and the season at its height — with- 
out one word as to why or where she was going. I 
really cannot comprehend it ; can you ?” 

“ I never attempt to comprehend a woman’s 
motives,” returned her husband, laconically. “ It 
would be a useless waste of time and thought.” 

Vivian Carsdale heard of Doris’s departure with 
a strange smile on her lips. She, and she alone, 

[279] 




28 o 


Parted at the Altar . 


understood her sudden flight. She did not make 
known poor Doris’s story as she had threatened to 
do. She had merely meant to frighten the girl into 
acknowledging her indentity. No\y that her rival 
was vanquished, she could afford to hold her peace. 

There was great disappointment among the young 
ladies over Doris’s sudden departure, for she was a 
general favorite, and this piqued Vivian exceedingly. 

Very adroitly she set herself to the task of unrav- 
eling what seemed to her a wonderful mystery — as 
to how poor, dependent Doris had become a great 
heiress, and was known as Miss Fielding. Little by 
little she drew from Mrs. Lancaster the story of her 
son Karl’s adventure and his romantic meeting with 
Doris, and their discover) 7 subsequently that she was 
the long-lost heiress whom they had been seeking. 
She had been identified, beyond a doubt, as the 
daughter of Hulbert Brandon Fielding. 

“ But her past life?” said Vivian, eagerly. “Did 
she ever — •” 

“ She told me very little of her past life,” inter- 
rupted Mrs. Lancaster. “ Doris did not like to talk 
about it.” 

Vivian knew, when she heard that, that Doris had 
never revealed, then, that strange chapter in her 
past life. 

“ It is a wonder that Mr. Thornton, the banker’s 


A Strange Revelation . 


281 


son, who left the hotel recently, and Miss Fielding, 
did not mane a match,” laughed Vivian. “ I hear 
that he was so much in love with her.” 

“ Doris took a strange dislike to him,” responded 
Mrs. Lancaster. “ He was all that was gallant and 
handsome, following her around like a shadow. Yet 
she avoided him whenever it was possible.” 

“ I should not have thought that would have 
pleased your son, Mrs. Lancaster,” laughed Vivian 
roguishly ; “ for, if report speaks truly, he has hopes 
in that direction.” 

“ Doris always declares she will never marry, so 
all hope would be useless in that direction,” said 
Karl’s mother. 

And at that moment the entrance of Karl himself 
put a stop to all further conversation on that topic. 

Newport, even in all its gayety, would not have 
attracted Vivian thither had it not been for the hope 
of seeing Frederick Thornton again, and the wild 
delusion of fanning the old love into flame. The 
shock of coming face to face with Doris, whom she 
believed to be dead, had been a great arid terrible 
blow to her, and she had realized, with this living 
barrier between them, that Frederick was indeed 
lost to her forever. 

Yet it was with a feeling of intense satisfaction 
she nad realized that, owing to the great and sur- 


282 


Parted at the Altar. 


prising change in Doris, he had failed to recognize 
her. It was no wonder. 

The Doris he had known in that past was but a 
timid slip of a school-girl ; the Miss Fielding he had 
met in later years was a society belle and a beauty. 

What strange fate had brought them together 
again, and parted them more widely than before ? 

“ This is the second time that girl has come 
between me and Frederick Thornton’s love !” 
groaned Vivian, desperately, as she paced the floor 
of her room excitedly. 

Meanwhile the days dragged slowly by ; the 
weeks lengthened into a month, and as yet not a 
line had been received from Doris. 

Karl Lancaster and his mother were growing 
uneasy over the matter, while the old doctor 
declared that his capricious young ward was abun- 
dantly able to take care of herself. No need of anxiety ; 
Doris must return soon, for her supply of pocket 
money, which she had taken with her, would not 
last forever. Buoyed up with this hope, they 
waited patiently ; but not so much as a line, reveal- 
ing Doris’s whereabouts, reached them. 

But let us follow Doris’s letter written that night 
to Frederick Thornton, and see what became of it. 
Traveling about from place to place as he was, it 
was a difficult matter for mail to reach him. It 


A Strange Revelation. 


283 


was quite six weeks ere Doris’s letter fell into his 
hands. 

He looked at the square white envelope, which, 
by its many crossed-out directions, seemed to have 
followed him about so persistently, with curious 
eyes, wondering who his new correspondent could 
be. 

“ The best way to find out would be to open and 
see,” he thought, suiting the action to the word. 

He saw it was a long, closely-written letter, 
blotted by tears. 

“ It looks like Miss Fielding’s writing,” he cried, 
quickly turning over the page. “ Why, it is from 
Miss Fielding,” he muttered, catching his breath 
hard. 

Like a man in a dazed, bewildered dream, Freder- 
ick Thornton read the startling letter through from 
beginning to end. What was it this letter told him ? 
Was he mad or dreaming? Doris, his little, 
neglected bride, whom he had mourned as dead, 
and Miss Fielding were one and the same! Oh, 
impossible ! There was some terrible mistake ! 

Again and again he read the letter through. Yes, 
here it was, in black and white, as plain as written 
words could make it, every incident brought up 
and lucidly explained. Great drops of perspiration 
Stood out on his face, and his hands trembled, strong 


284 


Parted at the Altar. 


man though he was. But one thought filled 
heart and brain. He could claim Doris Fielding ; 
she was his wife. Now he realized why he had 
been so strangely attracted toward her from the 
first. 

Had he been blind that he had not noticed her 
great resemblance, to the young bride from whom 
fate had parted him so strangely in that bitter 
past ? 

The revelation was wonderful to him. 

He would lose no time in hurrying back to New- 
port to see Doris, and explain to her that which she 
had not given him time to explain on that fatal 
night — the innocent cause that had parted them, 
wrecking two lives. 

How he would kneel at her feet, and tell her how 
he had mourned the young bride whom he had lost 
so cruelly — mourned for her, refusing to be com- 
forted ; and how the first sight of her face, which 
had reminded him so strangely of Doris, had thrilled 
anew the heart he had believed dead. 

Despite her coldness and aversion (and Heaven 
knows, under the cruel mistake she was laboring 
under, he well knew she had reason to abhor him, 
innocent though he had been of any thought of 
deserting his poor little bride), he believed she still 
loved him. 


A Strange Revelation. 


285 


Through his brain flashed the desperate cry that 
had fallen from her lips when they had faced death 
together in the mad surf : 

“ Save yourself, Frederick ! Never mind me ! 
You must not give up your life uselessly for me ! 
Oh, save yourself for my sake — because I love you !” 

Six long weeks the letter — this precious letter — • 
had been following him about. 

What must Doris think because she had received 
no reply ? Should he telegraph her that it had only 
been received within the hour? 

No, no ! ' It would be better to go on and see her 
in person. No telegram could tell one-half of what 
he had to say to her. 

But one eastward-bound express stopped at the 
little village where he was staying, and that was at 
six in the evening. It was not yet noon. How 
should he pass the intervening hours? Frederick 
Thornton asked himself. 

One heart in that quiet village was fiery and rest- 
less enough as the hours rolled by. One man paced 
its streets with impatience, because the warm day 
would not go more quickly. He counted the hours. 
There were still two to pass ; then the train would 
arrive. 

It seemed to him the sun was slow in setting ; his 
watch was behind time; the train must be an hour 


286 


Parted at the Altar . 


late. He must do something to while away the 
hours until then. He could do nothing. It was 
impossible to detach his mind from her. He could 
think of nothing but the strange revelation contained 
in Doris’s letter. 

Like one dazed, he paced up and down the streets. 
The sun or moon might be shining ; the earth be 
green or brown beneath his feet ; the trees be bare 
or full of leaf. He knew nothing, saw nothing, 
understood nothing but this : 

He was going to see Doris again — his beautiful, 
peerless Doris, that had blossomed from such a frail 
bud into such a magnificent flower — and claim her 
as his wife. 

Men and women and children looked curiously at 
him as he passed along with his handsome, absorbed 
face. They were nothing to him — the whole world 
was nothing— for he was going back to claim his 
beautiful young bride. 

The two hours must be lived through somehow. 

At last the longed-for whistle of the incoming 
train from afar off fell upon his ear. 

“Thank Heaven!” muttered Frederick. “This 
has been the longest day 1 have ever experienced in 
my life.” 

How slow the train seemed to drag along, 


A Strange Revelation. 


287 


It almost seemed to Frederick Thornton that he 
could walk as swiftly. 

The night waned at last, and the golden sun rose 
on a new-born day. 

It was fully nine in the morning ere the train 
steamed into the Newport depot. 

Frederick took a cab, and lost no time in reaching 
the Ocean Beach Hotel. 

“ Were the Lancasters here yet, and- their ward ?” 
he asked eagerly of the hotel clerk. 

Karl Lancaster, who had entered the office unper- 
ceived, stepped forward in person to answer his 
queries. 

“ We — that is, my father and mother and 1 — are 
still here ; but Miss Fielding has gone,” he said, 
slowly. 

“ Gone !” echoed Frederick; and he gasped out 
the word as though it was the last he should ever 
speak. “ Where has she gone, Karl?” 

A strange flush passed over Karl Lancaster’s face. 

“You must tell me!” Frederick cried. “ I must 
see her!” 

Karl Lancaster looked into his friend’s pale, 
excited face without replying. 

“ I have the right to know, Karl,” he went on, 
huskiiy. “ I may as well tell you what all the 
world must soon know. Doris is my wife !” 


288 


Parted at the Altar. 


And, in a few brief words, he told Karl all, finish- 
ing by putting Doris’s letter in his hand. 

Karl Lancaster’s amazement can better be imag- 
ined than described. 

“ Now )^ou will tell me where Doris has gone, 
Karl,” he cried, hoarsely. “ 1 cannot rest night or 
day until I have seen her.” 

“ Heaven help you to bear what I must tell you, 
Frederick,” said Karl ; “ but you must bear it 
bravely like a man. 

“Doris has gone,” he went on, huskily. “ We do 
not know where to. She went away suddenly six 
weeks ago without saying where she was going, 
leaving no address behind her. She left a note, 
merely saying, when she arrived at her destination 
she would write. We have not heard from her 
since. We have written to all her friends, but we 
could not trace her whereabouts.” 

A cry that was hardly human in its anguish fell 
from Frederick Thornton’s lips. 

“ Gone!” he repeated. “Gone! Oh, Heaven!” 

How dark the sky looked. How the light 
seemed to fade from the sun. He stood before 
Karl panting, gasping, dismayed. Karl could see 
the strong, troubled heart-beats in his cheeks and 
his neck. He could see the strong hands tremble 
like weak leaves in the wind. 









A Strange Revelation. 


289 


Something like the truth flashed over Frederick 
Thornton. After writing that letter, which she 
knew full well would bring him at once to New- 
port, she had gone hurriedly away to avoid him, 
leaving no address behind her by which she could 
be traced. 

“ How she must abhor me to have done that,” he 
thought, bitterly. 

The blow that Karl Lancaster had received in the 
knowledge that Doris belonged to another, was a 
heavy and sore one ; but he bravely put all thought 
of self from him and strove to comfort his friend. 

“ The season here is drawing to a close. We 
would have been away two weeks ago, had it not 
been for the vain hope that Doris might return,” 
said Karl. “We leave here for New York to-day. 
Will you not come with us?” 

Most of the summer guests had gone ; there was 
nothing to stay for, and Frederick sorrowfully con- 
sented. 

Great was the consternation of both Dr. Lancaster 
and his wife when they heard Frederick Thornton’s 
strange story — more pitiful than the most pathetic 
romance could have been. 

He told them everything — omitting no detail — 
of how he had first met pretty, timid Doris by 
accident in the seminary grounds ; how their 


290 


Parted at the Altar . 


acquaintance had ripened into friendship in the 
days that followed, and through pity for the lonely 
life of the beautiful, desolate child (for she was little 
more than that), he had invited her to the grand 
ball. 

He described the sternness of Madame Delmar 
toward poor Doris, and Doris’s fear lest the 
madame would refuse to allow her to go. 

“ ‘ Then do not ask her,’ I rejoined,” continued 
Frederick. “I said, ‘Why refuse yourself two 
hours of pleasure? You, who have had so little 
enjoyment in your young life ? Come, it would be 
a decided lark to cheat madame.’ I counseled with 
all a young fellow’s impulsive thoughtlessness, and 
poor little Doris listened. 

“ ‘ The gates of the seminary dose at ten ; could 
I get back by that time, do you think, Mr. Fred' 
erick?’ questioned Doris, dubiously, yet with all a 
young girl’s eagerness and love of mischief, raising 
her laughing blue eyes to mine. 

“ I assured her, on my honor as a gentleman, she 
should be back by ten. The gates should never be 
closed against her ; I would hold myself responsible 
for that,” continued Frederick, brushing his white 
hand over hi c damp forehead. 

“Well, the upshot of the matter was, that little 
Doris and 1 went that night to the grand ball, Mrs. 


A Strange Revelation. 291 

Lancaster. It was her first ball, and you know with 
what keen zest a young girl always enjoys her first 
ball. It seemed like a glimpse of Heaven to her. 

“ The hours flew by unheeded, and to make a 
long' story short, we returned to the seminary just 
in time to see the heavy gates closed in our faces. 

“ I shall never forget the poignant grief of poor 
little Doris,” said Frederick, huskily ; “ how she 
wept, laying her pretty face down against the cold 
stones, and wringing her little white hands, declar- 
ing that madame would turn her away from the 
institute on the morrow for what she had done — 
just as sure as fate. And, oh, how piteously the poor 
child cried out that she could never — never face 
the great, cold, cruel world, and she wished she had 
died before she ever consented to go to the ball. 

“ I said, 1 Little Doris, it was all my fault. With 
me rests the responsibility of the affair. You shall 
not be thrown on the mercy of the cold world. 
There is one way of preventing it, and that is to 
marry me, Doris.’ 

“‘Are you really in earnest, Mr. Frederick?’ she 
gasped, looking up in dismay at me through her 
tears. 

“‘Of course I am, Doris,’ I replied. ‘You shall 
be my bride within an hour, if you will.’ 

“ There had been no wooing, no courtship. I 


292 


Parted at the Altar . 


never kissed the pretty white face until I stood 
beside Doris that night at the altar, and she was 
pronounced my bride. 

“ We took the midnight train for Baltimore, 
arriving there late the next forenoon. And now I 
am coming to the most pitiful part of my story, 
Mrs. Lancaster. When you know it all it will be 
easier for you to try to reconcile Doris and me — 
when she is found — if you will undertake so difficult 
a task.” 

“ Of course I will,” she replied, heartily ; “ you 
may be quite sure of that.” 

Now that she knew that Doris was lost to her 
own son Karl forever, her next thought was to see 
her husband’s ward happy ; for she loved Doris 
with a true, motherly affection. 

“ I had reached the climax of my story when I 
told you that on the wedding trip Doris and I went 
to Baltimore, arriving there at about noon. 

“ Leaving her by herself to rest the short hour 
before luncheon, 1 left her, strolling out into the 
street for the ostensible purpose of smoking a cigar, 
smiling as I recalled poor little Doris’s words : 

“‘Don’t be quite an hour, please, Mr. Frederick, 
for I shall be so lonely until you return.’ 

“ It sounded to me more like a child’s speech than 


Breaking the News. 


2 93 


a woman’s ; but, then, my little bride was but a 
child, after all — she was only seventeen. 

“ I had not walked far — I was just crossing the 
walk — when suddenly I felt a terrible blow from 
behind on my head. One terrible groan of agony 
burst from my lips, and I knew no more. 

“ When I regained consciousness I found myself 
lying upon a cot bed in the hospital. 

“ With consciousness — it was found my memory 
was completely shattered — all remembrance of 
Doris, the bride who must have waited for me in 
such terror and agony, was completely obliterated 
from my mind. I had forgotten all about my sud- 
den marriage — forgotten Doris completely.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

BREAKING THE NEWS. 

A cry of compassion broke from Mrs. Lancaster’s 
lips; great tears stood in her eyes which she vainly 
endeavored to control. Her heart was moved to 
its very depths by Frederick Thornton’s pathetic 
story. 

“ I had my father telegraphed for at once, when 


294 


Parted at the Altar . 


I discovered where I was,” continued Frederick, 
‘‘and I was removed to my home, and there nursed 
back to health and strength ; but through it all 
there always existed a strange blank in my mind. 
There seemed to be some thought always struggling 
in my brain, of something important which 1 had 
forgotten ; but try hard as I would, I could not 
recall whatever it was that had eluded my memory. 

“ At length, being thrown in contact with an old 
sweetheart of mine, I formed an attachment for her, 
and asked her to be my wife, little dreaming that I 
was not free to woo and win her. The wedding- 
day was set, and the arrangements for the marriage 
went steadily on.” 

“Oh, Mr. Thornton,” cried Mrs. Lancaster, with 
a gasp of horror, “surely Heaven intervened to 
save you from such an awful step as this second 
marriage would have been.” 

“ Heaven did interfere to save me, and save all 
concerned in that step,” replied Frederick, rever- 
ently ; “ and it happened in a most uncommon 
manner. 

“ My mother had engaged the services of a young 
companion, a timid creature, dark of skin, whose 
features were almost concealed by a pair of glasses. 

“ I cannot explain to you the strange sensation 
that passed over me as I first gazed at this young 


Breaking the News . 


295 


girl ; then an uncomfortable idea took possession of 
me. It seemed to me this strange creature was 
continually dogging my footsteps, especially when- 
ever I was with my fiancde. 

“ One starlight evening, while we were walking 
in the grounds, I bent my head to kiss my fiancee, 
when suddenly, like an electric shot, this creature 
sprang from the screening bushes out into the path 
before us, and dashing the glasses from her eyes, 
criedly out wildly : 

“ ‘ l cannot endure this longer. I shall go mad — 
yes, mad. Look into my face, and, despite the dis- 
guise that I have assumed, know that I am Doris, 
the bride whom you wedded and deserted at the 
very altar almost. You could never marry another 
while I, your neglected, deserted bride, lived, for 
in the sight of God’s laws and man’s you are mine 
- — my husband. But 1 am not going to live to be a 
barrier between you and happiness!’ she cried out, 
in a sudden wail of frenzy. ‘I am going to die, to 
set you free !’ 

“ All in a moment, while she was making this hor- 
rible charge, memory returned to me like a flash. 
Heaven help me! I remembered all ; and the sud- 
denness of the horrible shock, and the crumbling 
precipice upon which I stood, held me spell-bound — 
speechless — dazed. 


296 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ Those wild words recalled my scattered senses. 
‘ What would you do, Doris ?’ 1 gasped. Only a 
faint cry of bitter agony answered me, and before I 
had time to utter one word of explanation — before 
I could say that Pwas an innocent man, upon whom 
disease had left the fatal mark of complete loss of 
memory as to the past — she had turned like a flash 
in the path, and sped toward the glittering river 
that lay beyond. I saw her disappear. I thought 
I heard a splash. But when, in agony too great for 
words, I reached the river brink, there was no trace 
of my poor Doris. 

“ I was like a man driven mad. I had the river 
dragged. I did everything to recover the body ; 
but all to no avail. 

“ To my own family and the family of my fiancee 
the pitiful story was known. It went no further, 
as secrecy under the existing circumstances was 
deemed advisable. Of course the intended mar- 
riage was broken off, the public never knew why. 

“ I went abroad for three long and weary years, 
traveled incessantly — seeking only to forget. Never 
was a young man’s life blighted by so pitiful a trag- 
edy. And the bitterest drop in my cup of woe was 
my belief that poor Doris went to her death believ- 
ing I had cruelly, willfully deserted her ; bear in 
mind she had given me no time to explain. 


Breaking the News. 2 qj 

“ For three long years I mourned' for Doris, tell- 
ing myself my heart was buried in her grave. And 
this brings me back to the time, Mrs. Lancaster, 
when I met you and your husband’s ward abroad. 

“ You will not wonder that 1 did not recognize in 
Miss Fielding my lost Doris, when you remember 
that I had every reason to believe my poor Doris 
dead. 

“ The great change in her personal appearance (for 
she had grown from a childish little creature to a 
beautiful young woman), taller, perhaps, by half a 
head, and the change in name, would have deceived 
any man. 

“ Even under these circumstances my heart was 
drawn irresistibly towards her again. My very 
soul seemed to go forward to meet her. She seemed 
to fill an empty place in my life. 

“ In the depths of my heart I still loved my poor 
lost Doris as devotedly as ever — but still another 
thought was continually striving for supremacy in 
heart and brain, and that thought was — life in the 
future would not be worth living if it could not be 
shared with Miss Fielding for my wife. What 
troubled me most was her apparent dislike — nay, 
abhorrence of me ; it piqued, annoyed, surprised 
me. 

“ Despite her coldness, her anger, I followed her 


298 


Parted at the Altar. 


to Newport, as you know, and each day my love for 
her grew more intense. On the night I saved her 
from death in the surf, I asked her to be my wife, 
and confessed my love for her. 

“ But as the words fell from my lips, she turned 
on me like a flash. 

“ ‘ Your love!' she cried, vehemently. * There is 
nothing so false under the light of heaven as your 
love. God pity the woman who puts faith in your 
love, Frederick Thornton. It would end in a broken 
heart.’ 

“ And ere I could recover my voice to utter one 
word of protest, she was gone. 

“ For an hour or more I stood motionless on the 
white sands, trying to look my future in the face, 
and attempting to solve the problem as to why she 
should utter those words. Did she know the story 
of my poor, lost Doris from Doris’s point of view? 
I asked myself, in the greatest bewilderment. 

“ That night I left Newport, determined to never 
look upon her face again. And after six weeks of 
wandering about from place to place, the letter writ- 
ten by Doris, and which you have just read, reached 
me. 

“ My great agitation and unspeakable joy at the 
revelation it made you can better imagine than I can 
describe, Mrs. Lancaster,” said Frederick, with tears 


Breaking the News. 299 

that were no shame to his noble manhood, standing 
in his eyes. “ Miss Fielding and Doris one and the 
same ! I thought 1 had suddenly gone mad. I must 
be dreaming. 

“ I could not rest until I should see Doris again 
and explain all, and claim my darling bride, dearer 
now than ever to me. 

“ When I came here and found her gone, none 
knew whither, the bitter anguish, the sorrow, the 
despair of it was more than I could bear. I must 
find Doris ; I will move heaven and earth but what 
I shall find her.” 

“ You have my warmest sympathy, Mr. Thornton,” 
replied Mrs. Lancaster. “ It would give me the 
greatest pleasure to see two hearts that Heaven 
intended for each other reunited — it would indeed. 
Sooner or later Doris will communicate with us, and, 
rest assured, dear Frederick, no time shall be lost in 
restoring her to your arms.” 

How little either of them knew of the tragic event 
that was to happen ere they looked again on poor, 
hapless Doris’s face. It was well for Frederick 
Thornton he did not know what the future held in 
store for him. 

The next day saw the Lancaster party en route for 

♦ 

their New York home, Frederick accompanying 
them. Two days later he arrived at Thornton Villa. 


300 


Parted at the Altar . 


There was great rejoicing at the return of the 
handsome son of the house. Trixy, his younger 
sister, had fairly smothered him with kisses. 

“ I hope you have come home to stay now, my 
son,” said Mrs. Thornton. “Ah! my boy, the hap- 
piest day of my life would be on the day I could see 
you married and settled down. Are you still faith' 
ful to little Doris’s memory?” 

“Hush, mother !’’ warned Trixy, in a whisper. 
“ Don’t break the startling news to him too soon.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE HAND OF FATE. 

When Doris fled precipitately from the hotel, she 
took the first outgoing train, heeding not, caring not, 
in which direction she went. 

Long hours passed by, and on through the sun- 
light whirled the New York express. Doris sat at 
the window, gazing fixedly out at the changing 
landscape, yet seeing nothing. It was like one long 
dream to her. She could hardly collect her 
thoughts. She could hardly realize what had hap- 
pened, or where she was going. Her brain whirled. 


The Hand of Fate. 


301 


Her eyes burned so that she could hardly close 
them. Her thoughts were all fancied and unreal. 

At last the train steamed into the Grand Central 
depot, and the next moment Doris stood on the 
crowded platform quite alone. 

“ Cab, Miss ?” said the porters, as they hurried by. 

More than one passenger stood still to look curi- 
ously at the white, beautiful face, with the vague 
and frightened eyes. 

“Cab, Miss?” repeated the man. “Take you to 
any part of the city.” 

Doris tried to answer him. What was this strange, 
deathly sensation that was stealing over her? The 
man’s voice seemed far off and indistinct. Dense 
darkness shut out his face from her view. She 
threw up her hands with a little cry, and staggered 
forward, and would have fallen to the platform if 
the man had not caught her in his arms just in time. 

“ Great Moses ! Give us a hand here,” he cried 
out to one of his companions. “ A young woman 
here has fainted. Some one come and take her off 
my hands,” he bawled. “ I’ve a whole coach-load of 
passengers waitin’ for me. Come here, somebody, 
and attend to this gal.” 

It was one of the railroad officials who responded. 
What followed immediately after, Doris never 
knew. Long weeks afterward she awoke to con- 


302 


Parted at the Altar . 


sciousness in the hospital to which she had been 
taken, nameless, friendless, sick unto death, utterly 
desolate — she, the petted heiress, the caressed dar- 
ling of wealth and luxury. 

She looked up in wonder at the kindly face bend- 
ing over her. 

“ Where am I ?” she asked, in wonder, gazing 
blankly around her, “ and who are you ?” 

The nurse laid her cool hand on the feverish brow. 

“ You are in the hospital, my dear,” she answered. 
“ I am your nurse. You have been very ill, indeed.” 

“ In the hospital !” echoed Doris. “ Is it possible 
I have been ill ? Did they bring me here when I 
fainted away yesterday ?” 

The nurse laughed. 

“ It was a good many yesterdays ago,” she an- 
swered. “ I have attended you for quite six weeks, 
my dear.” 

Doris fell back on her pillow with a gasp of the 
most intense surprise. 

“You are not to talk now, my child,” the nurse 
went on, decisively. “ It wouldn’t take much to 
have a relapse of brain fever again. Here, take this 
medicine, and you will have a nice, long, refreshing 
sleep ; and after you wake up you shall tell me who 
you are, and where your relatives live, that they 
may be communicated with.” 


The Hand of Fate . 


303 


Doris turned her face to the wall with a hard, dry 
sob. 

“ I have no relatives on the face of the earth,” she 
answered, drearily ; “ no, not one.” 

The old nurse looked shocked. 

“ So young and so utterly friendless! Can it be 
possible ?” she thought, pityingly. 

All efforts on the following day to learn the 
address of Doris’s friends proved futile. 

“ I do not wish them to know where I am,” she 
answered. “ I am never going back to the old life 
again.” 

“ Every life has its own secrets,” responded the 
old nurse. “ You know best, child, if your action 
is right or wrong.” 

“Yes; I know best,” replied Doris, wearily. 

She was young and strong, and during the fort- 
night that followed the work of convalescence went 
on rapidly. 

“ You will soon be quite your old self again,” 
declared the old nurse, encouragingly. “ But you 
seem to have lost all heart. That is not right. I 
have seen in my experience as hospital nurse many 
a young girl who was brought in to us, and who 
was not half as ill as you were, die.” 

“ If life had as little charm for them as it has for 
me, perhaps they were not sorry to go,” said Doris. 


304 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ Oh, my dear ! my dear ! those are hard words 
to hear from the lips of a young girl,” said the 
nurse, shaking her head solemnly. “To youth the 
world should be gay and bright.” 

“It could never be gay and bright to one who 
has passed through so much as I have,” sighed 
Doris. “ No young girl ever had such a fate as 
mine.” 

“ Every one thinks their own fate hardest to 
bear,” said the nurse ; “ but if they only knew of the 
fate of others, they would think their *own happy, 
indeed, compared to it. Why, if I should tell you 
some of the pitiful cases that came under my 
observation when I was nurse in the Baltimore 
hospital — before 1 came to New York — you would 
never make that remark again. Did you speak ?” 

Doris had dropped back on her pillow with a low, 
shuddering moan. 

“ You spoke — of — Baltimore,” murmured Doris. 
“ I — I never hear the name of that place 
mentioned without suffering the keenest pain. The 
greatest sorrow of my life came to me there.” 

“Try to forget it, my dear,” advised the nurse, 
soothingly. 

“ I wish to Heaven I could forget !” sobbed Doris, 
bitterly. 

“ I will tell you some little anecdotes of others 


The Hand of Fate. 


305 


that will help you to forget,” said the nurse, draw- 
ing up her chair close by the couch. “ You will get 
so interested in other people’s woes that you will 
quite forget your own.” 

A sad smile hovered around Doris’s lovely 
mouth. 

“One of the saddest cases that ever came under 
my observation was that of a young man who was 
brought to the Baltimore hospital one morning. 
He was a victim to a street accident that had just 
occurred. A pair of runaway horses had nearly 
trampled him to death as he was crossing the 
walk.” 

“ I do not want to hear about it,” said Doris. 
“ It would only make me sad. Tell me of some- 
thing more cheerful. A touching, pitiful story 
always brings tears to my eyes.” 

“ But this one is so strangely romantic,” persisted 
the nurse, “ so like the page of a novel, that you 
could not help feeling interested in it.” 

To gratify the old nurse, who seemed bent upon 
telling this story, Doris at last consented to listen. 

“ I shall at least forget the darkness and coldness 
of my own past, -and the desolation of the future, 
while she is relating it,” she thought, with a weary 
smile. 

How little Doris dreamed, as she commenced her 


3°6 


Parted at the Altar. 


story, how vitally interested she was in it, and that 
this hour would be the turning point of her life. 

“As I was saying,” continued the nurse, “the 
young man who was brought into the Baltimore 
hospital that morning was suffering from a severe 
blow on the head, produced by a plunging, runaway 
horse. I remember it all quite as well as though it 
happened yesterday ; and it was almost four years 
ago. 

“ The doctors all declared the poor fellow would 
not live. How sorry 1 felt for him. He was so 
young and so handsome ; stricken down without 
warning in a single instant. 

“ He is some mother’s idolized son — some young 
girl’s lover,” I sighed, as I bent over him, gently 
pushing the dark, damp curls back from his white 
forehead. 

“ There was not a line about him by which he 
could be identified. 

“ But, contrary to the doctors’ expectations, he 
did live — though the terrible siege of brain fever 
through which he passed would have killed many 
another man less strongly constituted ; yet, even 
with returning health, the danger was by no means 
past. It was feared his reason would be impaired, 
the blow over the base of the brain had been such" 
a terrible one. The decision the doctors arrived 


The Hand of Fate. 


307 


at was quite correct, — the poor fellow’s reason 
was but partially restored. He could not recollect 
what brought him to Baltimore, or, indeed, events 
that had happened for some time back, otherwise 
his brain was clear enough. 

“ ‘ There seems to be some strange, undefined 
thought ever striving for recognition in my brain, 
nurse,’ he would often say to me ; ‘ something that 
I ought to do seems weighing on my mind, but I 
cannot think what it is. 

“ 4 Do not try,’ I advised. ‘ It is probably only 
some sick fancy. No doubt, if it is anything very 
important, it will come back to your memory 
sooner or later.’ 

“ 4 1 wish I could throw off the weight of depres- 
sion at will,’ he answered, with a sad smile and a 
dreamy look in his dark eyes. ‘ I have often heard 
of men who have been haunted by some lost 
thought for long years, and I always laughed 
heartily at the notion. Now 1 am a victim to a 
phantom thought myself.’ 

44 1 never shall forget the day his father came for 
him to take him home. There were tears in the 
eyes of the proud old banker as he extended his 
hand to me. 

“ 4 You have nursed my son through a long and 
dangerous illness,’ he said. ‘ I am more indebted 


308 


Parted at the Altar . 


to you than words can express. If I can be of ser- 
vice to you at any time in life, you have but to call 
upon me,’ he added, warmly. ‘ Your careful nurs- 
ing, I firmly believe, has been the direct cause of 
saving my son Frederick’s life.’ 

“ Why, are you ill?” cried the old nurse, spring- 
ing to Doris’s side. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

FREDERICK THORNTON’S WIFE. 

“ How foolish I am to be so agitated at the name 
— Frederick,” thought Doris, recovering her com- 
posure by a violent effort. “ Of course there is 
more than one ‘ Frederick ’ in the world.” 

Ah, how she loved the handsome young husband 
whom she was, even then, hiding from. 

All her wealth seemed dross to her, because she 
had missed Frederick Thornton’s love. 

By a great effort Doris collected her scattered 
thoughts, and listened to what the old nurse was 
saying : 

“ Are you ill, child ? Why, you are as white as a 
ghost.” 


309 


Frederick Thornton's Wife . 


“ No, I am not ill,” replied Doris ; “ it was only a 
sudden pain at my heart. Pray go on ; I am listen 
ing to your story.” 

And the old nurse did go on with the strange 
revelation that was to change the current of two 
lives. 

“ As I was saying,” she continued, “ the whole 
family of the rich banker was very grateful for the 
excellent care I had taken of handsome Mr. Fred- 
erick, and I grew to know them well — so well that 
when I was transferred from Baltimore to the 
New York hospital, I stopped a week at their 
beautiful home. 

“And it was then that I heard the tragic story 
that has darkened poor Mr. Frederick's life ever 
since the hour of that fatal sickness.” 

Doris was beginning to feel strangely interested 
in the narrative. She could not tell why. She was 
listening intently, her little hands locked tightly 
together in her lap, her large blue eyes never leav- 
ing the old nurse’s face. 

“ I told you of the blank in poor Mr. Frederick’s 
mind when he left the hospital,” she continued, 
“ and of something which he felt had escaped from 
his memory, try hard as he would to recall it. He 
could not even remember what had brought him to 
Baltimore, or why he was there.” 


3io 


Parted at the Altar. 


“ Yes, you told that before,” said Doris, impa- 
tient at the repetition. 

“ Upon that hangs the tragedy which followed,” 
answered the nurse, wiping a tear from her eye with 
her long white apron. 

“ Poor Mr. Frederick went back to his home, and 
his mother and sisters and his old sweetheart, who 
was visiting there, gave the idol of the family a 
royal welcome. It was almost like having him 
back from the grave — he had been so near the 
borders of eternity. 

“ This sweetheart was a pretty, dark-eyed girl, 
who thought a heap of Master Frederick, and the 
great fuss she made over his return flattered his 
vanity, of course. He never knew before quite how 
much she cared for him. 

“ When he asked her to marry him, and she con- 
sented, nothing could have pleased his family 
more. 

“ The day was set for the wedding, the bride’s 
trousseau was ordered, the invitations for the grand 
wedding were given out, and the day set for the 
marriage was fast drawing near. 

“ Then, suddenly, and without warning, the 
strangest event happened that ever happened in 
any young man’s life. 

“One evening, while walking with his sweet- 


Frederick Thornton s Wife. 


3ii 


heart, he was suddenly confronted by a young and 
beautiful girl, who claimed him as her husband. 

A great gasp broke from Doris’s white lips ; but 
the old nurse, not heeding it, went on, slowly : 

“ The girl young claimed him, crying out that she 
had tracked him down at last — the young husband 
who had married her, and had deserted her almost 
at the very altar.” 

Again that horrible gasp broke from Doris’s lips, 
and was unnoticed. Doris tried to speak, to cry 
out, but the words died away in her throat. The 
room, the green trees outside the window, and the 
face of the old nurse, seemed whirling around her ; 
and through it all, as if shrieked out, trumpet- 
tongued, upon the still air, she could hear every 
word that was uttered. 

“ Then, in a flash — that which Mr. Frederick had 
tried so hard all in vain to recall when he recovered 
from his dangerous illness, came back to him. And it 
struck him dumb with horror. 

“ It was quite true. He had married the lovely 
young girl, bringing her to Baltimore on their wed- 
ding trip ; and stepping out to get a cigar, the ter- 
rible accident had occurred which laid him up for 
long weeks in the hospital. And, oh, the pity of it ! 
Think of it !— picture it ! Wherr he had recovered, 
it was with a strange blank in his mind. He had 


312 


Parted at the Altar . 


forgotten the existence of the fair young bride he 
had brought to Baltimore— forgot his marriage and 
all connected with it. And it was all the more piti- 
ful, because it had been a secret one. Even his rel- 
atives knew nothing of it. 

“ Before he could find voice, in his horror, grief 
and amazement, to explain this to the young bride 
who believed herself so cruelly deserted, and had 
tracked him down, finding him about to wed 
another, she had fled, and — ” 

The rest of the sentence never was finished. 
With the wildest cry that ever was heard, Doris 
sprang from the couch, and sank down in a dead 
faint at the old nurse’s feet, in an instant she had 
raised the slim, girlish figure in her strong arms, and 
laid her on the couch again. 

“ Dear me ! who would have thought the story 
would have affected her so !” she muttered, brush- 
ing back the lovely, clinging golden curls from the 
marble white face. “ I only meant to draw her 
thoughts away from her own troubles. I am afraid 
this will give the poor child a terrible back-set.” 

She lost no time in administering restoratives, and 
soon the lovely blue eyes flared open, and they 
rested on the old nurse’s face ; there was a gleam so 
strangely bright jn them that Mrs, Linwood, the 
old nurse, was quite frightened. 


Frederick Thornton's Wife . 313 

With a great sob Doris struggled up to a sit- 
ting posture and caught eagerly at the old nurse’s 
hands. 

“Was it a dream?” she cried, incoherently. 
“ Tell me — was it a dream?” 

“ Was what a dream, my dear?” asked the old 
nurse, in a puzzled wonder, looking in affright at 
the girl’s flushed face. 

“That it was fate that separated Frederick and 
me!” gasped Doris. “That he did not mean to 
desert me so heartlessly ! Oh, there has been a 
most horrible mistake — a mistake that has wrecked 
two lives !” she cried out, incoherently. 

“ Listen, nurse,” she cried, vehemently. “ I am 
that most unhappy bride who wedded Frederick 
Thornton secretly and came with him to Balti- 
more, and who had every reason to believe that 
he had willfully deserted me.” 

“ You f" cried the old nurse in the greatest 
amazement. 

“Yes, I,” repeated Doris, sobbing as though 
her heart would break. “ It must have been the 
han of fate that led me to you, nurse, and 
prompted you to reveal to me Frederick Thorn- 
ton’s story. And oh ! the joy of knowing he 
never meant to be false to me ! Oh, nurse, nurse, 
those words have made me well !” 

Mrs. Linwood almost believed it as she looked 


Parted at the Altar . 


3H 

at the girl’s beautiful flushed face, and her eyes 
bright as stars. 

Long and earnestly the old nurse and Doris 
talked the matter over ; and Doris told her all 
of her pitiful story from beginning to end. 

“Now that you know all, nurse,” she sobbed 
faintly, “ what would you advise me to do?” 

Oh, how eagerly, wistfully the lovely blue eyes 
scanned the wrinkled face of the old nurse who had 
saved Frederick’s life. 

Mrs. Linwood took the little, white, trembling 
hands in her own, and smiled down into the eager, 
lovely young face. 

“ There is but one thing to say, my dear,” she 
answered, slowly, “ and that is — to go back to your 
husband.” 

Doris drew back with a sudden blush. 

“ Nay, nay ; do not let false modesty stand 
between you now,” she counseled. “ You are his 
lawfully wedded wife ; and a wife’s place is by her 
husband’s side.” 

“ Oh, nurse, if you would but send for Frederick 
to come to me, telling him all,” sobbed Doris, hid- 
ing her lovely face on the white, ruffled pillow. 

“ I know a better way,” declared Mrs. Linwood. 
“ As soon as you are strong enough to stand the 
little journey I will take you to him. He is now at 
Thornton Villa,” she answered. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

DORIS GOES TO FREDERICK’S HOME. 

It has often been said that “ Love works wonders.” 
This was especially true in Doris’s case. From that 
moment her rapid convalesence was most wonder- 
ful. In a week’s time she was able to undertake 
the short journey to Thornton Villa. 

“ How strange it seems — going back to my — my 
— husband, after being so strangely parted from him 
three long years ago said Doris, clinging to her 
companion’s arm, half laughing half sobbing, as the 
coach rolled swiftly along the sunlit streets, then 
struck into the shady road that led out into the 
suburbs. 

Oh, how joyously the birds warbled, looking at 
the lovely face in the carriage that whirled by with 
their bright little eyes, as much as to say: “We 
know where you are going ; we hope you will have 
a royal welcome.” Even the flowers seemed to nod 

[ 3 * 5 ] 



3 l6 


Parted at the Altar. 


gaily to Doris from the roadside as she passed 
them. 

“ Every mile brings me nearer to my love,” mur- 
mured Doris, as she counted the mile-stones. 

And yet, when the great turrets and towers of 
Thornton Villa loomed up in the distance before 
her, she grasped her companion’s arm with nervous 
dread. 

“ I am coming to Frederick’s home uninvited,” 
she breathed, softly. “ I wonder if his mother and 
sisters will be glad or sorry when they see me !” 

Then she remembered under what widely dif- 
ferent auspices she had crossed that threshold 
before. She blushed to remember it — in disguise, 
and as his mother’s paid companion. Now her for- 
tunes were strangely reversed. She was heiress to 
a million now ; a courted, petted society belle — a 
different personage, indeed, from the little nobody, 
the poor little dependent whom Mrs. Thornton 
would have considered no match for her handsome, 
elegant son. 

“ Of course they will be glad to see you, my 
dear,” declared the old nurse, warmly. “ They 
know but too well how Mr. Frederick has mourned 
and grieved after you.” 

Trembling with excitement, she still clung to the 


Doris Goes to Frederick s Home. 317 


old nurse’s arm as the carriage swept up the long 
curved drive to the porch. 

Mrs. Thornton and her three daughters, Isabel, 
Gwendolin and Trixy, were seated in the drawing- 
room engaged in quite a spirited discussion at that 
particular moment. 

And it had all been brought about by a letter 
Gwendolin held in her hand. It was from Vivian 
Carsdale, and read in the postscript that she 
intended paying them a flying visit some time dur- 
ing the following week — “and had something won- 
derful to tell them — that is, if you have not learned 
all about it from Frederick ere this,” she added. 

And it was as to what this wonderful news could 
be they were just then discussing. 

“ I hope my brother has not married that artful 
Vivian at last,” cried Trixy, “and I am almost sure 
it is that ; for did not Frederick write us himself 
nearly six weeks ago, these identical words — ‘ he 
had something wonderful to tell us, when he came 
home ’ ?’’ 

“ I used to think so much of Vivian, three years 
ago,” sighed Mrs. Thornton. “ It was the one 
desire of my life to see her Frederick’s wife — and 
now I am only too thankful that they drifted 
asunder.” 

“ Perhaps the artful young widow has accom- 


Parted at the Altar . 


3i8 

plished that which the young girl failed to do — 
caught Frederick in her toils after all,” said Isabel. 

“ What if it should be about Gerald Marston, the 
old lover whom Vivian threw over for Frederick 
three years ago, would you care, Gwendolin?” 
asked Trixy, looking roguishly at her sister. 

“ She could say nothing about him that could 
affect me,” said Gwendolin Thornton, proudly. 

“ She might say that she had met him again, and 
at sight of her dark eyes the old flame of love has 
been relighted in his breast, and he has laid his 
heart and iortune at her feet a second time.” 

“ I should not believe it,” returned Gwendolin, 
quietly. “ All love for Vivian died out of Gerald’s 
heart long ago. He told me so only the last time 
he called. Oh, mamma,” she cried, ‘ turning her 
blushing face toward her mother “ shall I tell 
Isabel and Trixy what else he said?” she stam- 
mered, hiding her rosy face in her handkerchief. 

“ I will tell them for you, my dear. They may as 
well know first as last ” smiled Mrs. Thornton. 
“ Gerald asked your sister Gwendolin to become 
his wife, my dears.” 

There was a perfect shower of ohs I and ahs! 
from two pairs of lips # and in a trice, Isabel and 
Trixy were by their sister’s side, covering her 
blushing face with kisses, declaring the lovers had 


Doris Goes to Frederic# s Home. 319 

stolen a march on them. They had not even sus- 
pected such a tender state of affairs. 

“ Then it really must be our poor brother Fred- 
erick whom Vivian has caught in her toils,” declared 
Trixy, despairingly. 

“ He does not write much like a happy lover,” 
said Isabel, languidly. “ There is certainly a tone 
of despondency runing through his letters.” 

“ Ah, mamma, you have almost forgotten to-day 
is Thursday,” said Trixy. “ You know Frederick is 
coming here to-day.” 

“How could I forget that, my dear?” smiled 
Mrs. Thornton. “ I am counting the hours until he 
arrives. He will not be here until seven. It is only 
three now, my dear,” consulting her jeweled 
watch. 

“ I hear carriage wheels now, mamma,” declared 
Trixy, springing to the bay-window, from whence 
she had a very good view of the spiral drive that 
led to the front porch. “Yes, I see a carriage. 
The coachman is opening the door. It is not Fred- 
erick, mamma. Two ladies are alighting.” 

“ Callers,” commented Mrs. Thornton, settling 
herself down in her chair and awaiting the inevit- 
able. 

“ Why, bless me, if it isn’t old Nurse Linwood !” 
cried Trixy, from her post of observation. “ And 


320 


Parted at the Altar. 


there is a beautiful young ladv with her, mamma ; a 
young and very lovely lady, elegantly dressed." 

Mrs. Thornton raised her eyebrows in well-bred 
surprise, but made no comment. 

A moment later there was the sound of voices in 
the corridor without. Nurse Linwood and the 
butler, who had never been on good terms, were 
having a little altercation outside. 

“ No, ma’am, no ; I cannot allow you and this lady 
to pass on to the drawing-room without being 
announced. My lady would be very angry, indeed !" 

“ But I will pass on without being announced !’’ 
declared Nurse Linwood, emphatically. “ Mrs. 
Thornton will never consider it presumption on my 
part, be sure of that." 

“Orders are orders, Mrs. Linwood," answered the 
man, sturdily. “All the ladies of the family are in 
the drawing-room, and perhaps they might not like 
to be intruded upon by your forcing your way into 
their presence. I ask you again to wait here until 1 
see whether they will see you and this young 
woman or not." 

“ Fiddlesticks !" snapped Nurse Linwood. “ Stand 
out of the way, I say.'’ 

“ Do let the man announce us, nurse," whispered 
Doris. “ I would far rather do it than raise a 


Doris Goes to Frederick' s Home. 


3 - 1 


scene;” but old Nurse Linwood was not to be 
shaken from her resolve. 

“ See what is the matter, Trixy, my love,” said 
Mrs. Thornton, knitting her brows into a dark 
frown. “ 1 cannot understand what those loud voices 
can mean. If Nurse Linwood is out there, bid her 
to come in, by all means. Ah, Trixy, I can never 
repay the debt of gratitude I owe her. Her great 
care of him saved my darling boy’s life.” 

Trixy flew to the door and flung it open. 

“ Oh, it is you, is it, Nurse Linwood ?” she called. 
“ Come right into the drawing-room.” 

“Well, who has come out best now in the argu- 
ment?” said the old nurse to the butler, as she drew 
Doris triumphantly past him. 

But he was not to be outdone in this manner. 

“.Mrs. Linwood — and — a lady!” he announced, 
boldly, with a flourish of his hand. 

A moment later the old nurse and her charge had 
gained the threshold of the drawing-room. 

Instinctively Mrs. Thornton and the young ladies 
had risen to their feet at the entrance of the grace- 
ful, veiled stranger Mrs. Linwood held by the hand. 

The next instant Doris had thrown up her veil. 
After three long years Frederick’s mother and 
Doris stood face to face — at last ! 

For one instant a death-like silence reigned. Then 


322 


Parted at the Altar. 


Mrs. Thornton took a step forward, scanning breath- 
lessly the lovely young face before her. 

“ Who are you ?” she cried. “ Your face is 
strangely familiar — and — yet — it is not !” 

The answer nearly took her breath away. Doris 
came and knelt before her, bowing her lovely golden 
head as she replied : 

“ I am your son’s wife ! I am Doris J” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

AT LAST. 

There had not been so much rejoicing at Thornton 
Villa for years as there was during the hour that 
followed Doris’s return. 

It seemed a wonderful story to Mrs. Thornton 
and her daughters, that the famous beauty and 
heiress of whom they had heard so much, was indeed 
Doris — Frederick’s bride. 

“ Oh, if you had but made a confidant of me and 
told me all, how different everything would have 
been,” cried Trixy, laughing and crying in a breath 
as she threw her arms around Doris’s neck, giving 
her a real old-fashioned, girlish hug. 


At Last, 


323 


“ You are here just in time for Gwendolin’s mar- 
riage,” Trixy went on eagerly; “ and a very bril- 
liant idea has occurred to me in connection with it. 
We will have a double marriage.- You shall be 
married over again to Frederick, and that will be 
your real wedding day. I will not hear a word on 
the subject in the way of objection,” declared Trixy. 
“ I must have my way about this. 

“ You will have barely time to rest an hour before 
luncheon,” Trixy went on, gayly. “ Remember who 
is coming at seven. And when he finds his darling 
Doris is here — beneath this roof — he will not wait 
an instant until he sees you. These lovers are 
always impatient creatures. Great goodness ! how 
you are blushing, Doris. But there! I must run 
away. 

“ Oh, dear ! every one’s love affair turns out happy 
but mine,” murmured Trixy, with a little, half-sup- 
pressed sob. “ Gwendolin and her lover are to 
marry. Doris and Frederick are to be happy at last. 
While Karl Lancaster, the young man I care for — 
Oh, dear, what a little goose I am for caring for a 
young man who does not dream of caring for me. 
But he does not know it and never shall. There’s 
a great deal of consolation in that.” 

It was a very happy six o’clock dinner they sat 
down to ; but Doris could not eat a morsel. But no 


Parted at the Altar . 


3*4 

one pretended to notice it. She was glad to escape 
to her room. She quite fancied they must hear the 
tumultuous throbbings of her heart as the hands of 
the ebony and bronze clock on the mantel traveled 
slowly — very slowly — toward the hour of seven. 

Suddenly there was a quick, imperative tap on the 
door, accompanied by Trixy’s shrill voice, crying 
out, impatiently : 

“ Open the door, Doris, please. I have something 
for you.” 

Doris opened the door all in a flutter. Had Fred- 
erick come, and was Trixy bringing a message from 
him? But, no. There stood Trixy, with a pretty 
white mull dress, half smothered in lace flounces and 
knots of blue ribbon, on her arm. 

“ I’m going to convert you, in no time at all, into 
a veritable Cinderella, my dear Doris,” she cried. 
“ As your trunks are not here yet, you must accept 
the loan of one of my dresses for this once. I 
want you to look ever so pretty in * somebody’s ’ 
eyes. And I know that somebody will think you 
perfectly charming in this.” 

“Oh, how goo4 you are, dear,” said Doris, happy 
tears shining in her blue eyes. 

“ Don’t mention it, or you will confuse me,” 
declared Trixy, laconically. “ Come now, Doris. 


At Last. 


325 


You haven’t much time to spare, I can tell you. 
See, it wants a quarter to seven now.” 

Then the work of transformation began. Doris 
was soon robed in the pretty white mull dress, and 
the pale blue sash knotted about the slender waist, 
with a cluster of blue bells, as blue as her eyes, on 
her breast. 

“ There never was such a little fairy,” Trixy 
declared, leading her up to the mirror. “ True, you 
have not any diamonds on — and I haven’t any to 
loan you ; but who would miss such trifles, gazing 
at such a bewitching, blushing face, and eyes bright 
as stars? Oh, won’t every young fellow around 
here envy Frederick, though !” 

“ Please don’t, Beatrix,” cried Doris, blushing 
redder than ever. “ I’m so happy, and you are try- 
ing to make me vain.” 

At that moment the sound of carriage wheels was 
was heard rolling up the avenue. 

“It’s Frederick — at last!” cried Trixy, waltzing 
out of the room, but calling back with a saucy little 
roguish laugh : “ Expect to be called very hurriedly 
in five minutes time.” 

And away she flew to allow Doris to recover her 
composure ; but that was easier said than done. 
How her face flushed and paled as she heard that 
well-remembered voice in the corridor below — 


326 


Parted at the Altar . 


heard the tender, cheerful greeting that passed 
between him and the family. Then she knew, by 
the faint sound of their voices, they had taken 
Frederick into the drawing-room. 

How long would it be before they would send 
for her ? 

At the thought a sudden, girlish hesitancy crept 
over her, and she felt like running away from 
Thornton Villa again. 

She went swiftly down the corridor into the con- 
servatory, but the perfume of the rare exotics 
seemed to stifle her, and she passed into the garden. 

How long she stood by the fountain she never 
knew, but a few minutes seemed to elapse ; then she 
heard Trixy calling her name ; but she did not 
move — did not stir. All power to move or to speak 
seemed suddenly to have left her, she was so 
agitated. Then there was a confused murmur of 
voices. 

Trixy had burst into the drawing-room with a 
white, startled face, declaring Doris had gone. 

A low cry fell from Frederick’s lips, but before 
he could utter a word his mother put her jeweled 
hand on his shoulder. 

“ I do not think there is any need for agitation, 
my dear boy,” she said. “ You must go into 
the conservatory and search for Doris, and take 


At Last. 


327 


my word for it, you will find her; if not there, she 
will probably be in the rose-garden beyond, waiting 
for you.” 

Frederick Thornton needed no second bidding; 
in a flash he had gone from the room, and was 
hurrying toward the conservatory. He stood in the 
midst of the nodding blooms, glancing around him 
with eager, impatient scrutiny, calling, softly, 
“Doris! Doris!” But no slight form pushed aside 
the green leaves and sprang into his outstretched 
arms. 

“ She is not here,” he said to himself. 

Then he went on into the rose-garden beyond. 

The dusk had crept on, the golden stars had come 
out, and a young moon was set like a jewel in the 
night sky, shedding a soft, subdued light on the 
flowers and trees. 

He saw the glimmer of a white dress through the 
branches of the lilacs. The flush deepened on his 
handsome face. Some one was standing by the 
fountain — he knew it must be Doris. 

She was leaning over the fountain’s brim, watch- 
ing the stars that were reflected in the rippling 
water, and thinking of Frederick — wondering how 
she would greet him — what words she would use. 
She longed for, yet, girl-like, half dreaded the all- 
mportant moment when it drew nigh. Down the 


3 2 8 


Parted at the Altar. 


lawn strode a tall figure, his heart in his eyes, as he 
watched the beautiful picture under the blossoming 
boughs. He crossed over to where she stood, 
coming up behind her, his footsteps making no sound 
on the thick, green grass. 

He bent over her so closely that his lips almost 
touched her golden curls. 

Doris was looking dreamily over the roses, won- 
dering why the moonlight falling upon them at that 
moment seemed to take a more golden hue ; why 
the robins, singing their good-night songs in the 
branches of the beeches, seemed so joyous as they 
twittered and hopped from branch to branch ; and 
why her heart commenced to beat with a rapture so 
keen it was almost pain. 

Some subtle magnet caused her to turn her head 
— and then she sa^w him. 

Frederick Thornton was standing close beside 
her with extended arms, and a light on his hand- 
some face that thrilled her to the heart’s core. 

“ Doris, my darling !” he whispered, with tremu- 
lous eagerness. 

With a little quivering cry, she murmured : 

“ Frederick ! oh, Frederick !” and the next instant 
his arms enfolded her, just as they would hold her 
through life, pressed close to his throbbing heart, 
and love’s passionate kisses were burning the fair, 


At Last. 


3 2 9 


sweet face, the rosy mouth and rippling golden 
curls. 

“You know all, Frederick? My terrible mis- 
take ?” she faltered. 

“ Yes, all, my darling,” he answered, taking her 
white hands and clasping them round his neck and 
firmly folding them there. “It was a terrible, yet 
a very natural mistake, which any one would have 
made under the circumstances. We have been near 
being severed for life, my darling ; but thank 
Heaven, the past — is past. Yesterday at this time 
I thought I had lost you forever, Doris, and life 
looked dark and not worth living ; for what is life 
worth unless shared by the one we love.” 

His handsome mustached lips drooped lower 
until they rested against the rosy, dimpled cheek. 

“ I am going to claim the little bride whom fate 
drifted so strangely from my arms on our bridal day 
as soon as possible,” he declared. “We both know 
how dangerous are delays. I shall claim you this 
very hour. You will consent if you love* me, Doris. 
Tell me— do you, Doris?” 

A rosy flush surged from Doris’s dainty white 
throat to her broad white brow for one little 
second, as she struggled to free herself once more 
from the strong clasp of those loving arms ; and she 
shyly lifted those wondrous blue-bells of eyes to his 


330 


Parted at the Altar. 


face, with a glance so full of adoring love that it 
almost took his breath away for rapturous ecstasy, 
and he was answered. 

Then followed for the re-united lovers half an 
hour in paradise, as they sat together on the garden 
bench among the roses, talking over the past and 
exchanging eager vows of constancy and love for 
the future. 

“Oh, Frederick, we might have been happy long 
ago, if I had not thought you loved — Vivian, your 
first love, better than me,” she murmured ; “ and I 
remembered, too, that you had wedded me on that 
fateful night of the ball, through pity’s sake,” she 
added, smiling. 

“ Pity is akin to love, dear,” he answered, ten- 
derly. “ It is not always the love kindled at first 
sight that lasts longest, dear. 

“ I confess, when I married you, it is as you say — 
I did not love you, Doris. Shall I tell you when I 
did commence to care for you, dear?” 

“ Yes, tell me, Frederick,” she whispered. 

“ It was on that weird bridal trip of ours, while 
we were on the train whirling toward Baltimore. 
You sat by the window, with your pretty face 
turned toward the outer darkness, looking so hope- 
less, so forlorn and friendless that my heart smote 
me for not trying to make you happier. 


A t Last . 


33i 


“ Then, again, the full knowledge of my love for 
you burst upon my heart on the night you stood 
under these very same beech trees and confessed 
your love for the husband whom you supposed had 
cruelly deserted you, crying out you loved me, but 
would die to set me free that I might marry Vivian. 
On that night, when I thought I had lost you for- 
ever, I knew the bitterest pangs of torture a man’s 
heart can know. But we will talk of the dark past 
no more, love. The dark clouds have rolled away, 
and, thank Heaven, the sunshine of love has 
illumined our lives at last. 

“ Come, dear, we will go into the house. The}^ 
are sure to be tired of waiting for us.” 

“ I should think they were tired of waiting for 
you,” cried a saucy voice behind them. 

It was Trixy, who had come up just in time to 
hear that last remark. 

“They haven’t the patience of Job, please under- 
stand ; and they’ve waited so long for you two that 
patience has long since ceased to be a virtue. 
Mamma has sent for you both. There will be plenty 
of time for this billing and cooing in the future.” 

They followed Beatrix, laughingly, into the draw- 
ing-room, where the whole family was gathered to 
receive them. 

The girls would not hear to it that Frederick 


332 


Parted at the Altar . 


should claim his bride at once. It would be so 
romantic to do the wooing all over again, and have 
it end in a grand wedding. Besides, that course, and 
that course only, would prevent the startling story 
of the past from being given to the world, and caus- 
ing a nine-days’ sensation, they declared. 

And, for the latter reason, impatient as he was to 
claim Doris, Frederick was forced to admit that plan 
was best. 

That afternoon a telegram was sent to the Lan- 
casters, informing them that Doris was at Thornton 
Villa. 

“ Of cchirse, I am very glad to think Doris and 
Frederick Thornton are to be happy at last,” said 
Mrs. Lancaster that night to her husband. “ But, 
oh ! how sorry I am for our Karl ! Doris has 
wrecked his life ! He loved her so well ! He — he 
— told me so,” she sobbed. 

“ He is young ; time will cure all that. His heart 
is very susceptible. The next pretty girl he meets 
is quite liable to catch his heart in the rebound.” 

“ How can you imagine Karl so fickle as that?” 
cried his mother, warmly. 

“ It is not fickleness ; it is the way of men ; human 
nature, my dear.” 

The next afternoon the Lancasters, accompanied 
by Karl, presented themselves at Thornton Villa. 


A l Last 


333 


Doris flew to the door to welcome them, her face 
all smiles and blushes. They could scarcely recog- 
nize in the gay, happy girl who conducted them into 
the drawing-room the dreamy-eyed, pensive Doris 
who had always shrunk in such abhorrence from 
lovers, and the subject of love. 

When Trixy heard that Karl Lancaster was com- 
ing that afternoon, any one might have guessed her 
secret, she blushed so hotly to the very roots of her 
bronze curly head. Doris noticed it at once. She 
noticed, too, how very particular Beatrix was over 
her dress that afternoon. 

Even Karl Lancaster was bewildered by the 
lovely vision of girlish loveliness that danced into the 
drawing-room to greet him that afternoon, extend- 
ing the prettiest mite of a little white, slim hand. 

“ Why, I declare, Trixy ! how you do change !” 
cried Karl, flushing a little under the fire of the 
girl’s bright, sparkling eyes. 

“ In what way?” asked Trixy, with a toss of her 
curls. 

“ You seem more beautiful each time I see you,” 
he declared, honestly. “ Indeed, you do, Trixy.” 

He expected some kind of a saucy reply or witty 
remark, but Trixy answered never a word ; praise 
from him was bewildering to her. Karl was startled 


334 


Parted at the Altar . 


at the swift change that came over the girl’s lovely 
face. 

“I hope you are not angry with me for saying 
that, Trixy,” he added, earnestly. “I meant no 
flattery, upon my honor. We are such old friends, 
you know, that I may surely be pardoned for say- 
ing just what I think.” 

Trixy laughed, but somehow the laughter seemed 
slightly forced. 

“ Your mother promised me that you would show 
me the new clove carnations in the garden. Shall 
we go and look at them now?” he asked, eager to 
change the subject, and Trixy agreed at once. 

How pretty Trixy looked as she moved among 
the glowing roses, Karl told himself. Strange that 
he had never known how pretty she was before. 

“ I am glad you are here, Karl, that 1 may say in 
person that which I was just about to write to you 
to-day,” said Trixy, looking up at him suddenly. 

“ What is that?” he asked, drawing nearer to 
her. 

" 1 should like you to be ‘ best man ’ at Doris’s 
and Gwendolin’s wedding,” she said. “ I am to 
be first bridesmaid, and am to choose the best man. 
I should like it to be you, Karl, if you are willing.” 

“ Do you think me more eligible than any other 
of your numerous acquaintances that you would 


At Last. 


335 


confer such an honor upon me?” he asked, lightly, 
banteringly. 

“ Yes,’’ she answered, seriously. 

And again he saw that strange look cross her 
face, and her eyes fell before his searching gaze. 

A strange sensation thrilled his heart. A sudden 
thought flashed through his brain. Trixy cared for 
him ! Surely, it could not be egotistical fancy. 
The thought brought with it great pleasure. 

He was young and impulsive, and, as his father 
had said, his heart was on the rebound. 

He took a step nearer Trixy, and on the impulse 
of the moment whispered softly, as he caught her 
little white hand : 

“ Don’t you think I could fill a better position at 
that wedding than a ‘ best man,’ Trixy?” 

“ Why there is no better position, unless you 
were one of the two bridegrooms,” she declared. 

“Why couldn’t there be three bridegrooms?” he 
asked, coolly. 

“ I’m sure I don’t know,” stammered Trixy, wish- 
ing meanwhile that she were back in the drawing- 
room with the rest of the family. 

“ I think I could fill the position of bridegroom 
much better, making it a triple wedding, if I could but 
find a bride,” he persisted. “ Do you think I could 
find one, Trixy ?” 


336 


Parted at the Altar . 


“ Perhaps you might find some girl foolish 
enough to have you,” she replied, blushing furiously 
as she turned away from the audacious young fel- 
low, and attempted to fly past him over the lawn ; 
but he held her hands fast. 

“ Would you be willing to try the experiment, 
Trixy?” he replied; “it might not be so very 
foolish.” 

Half an hour afterward, when the lovers re-entered 
the drawing room, Doris knew by the happy light 
on their faces that Karl had found consolation at 
last. 

She crossed over to Frederick’s side and laid her 
little white hand on his arm. 

“Do you see how happy Trixy is?” she mur- 
mured. “ I am afraid we are soon to lose her, Fred- 
erick.” 

“ If by losing her I shall gain so noble a young 
man as Karl for a brother-in-law, I would be quite 
content. There was a time when I felt quite bitter 
towards him, Doris, and that was in those old days 
when I looked upon him as my rival in love’s war- 
fare. He was madly in love with my Doris then, 
and I half fear is so still. I hope he may not 
wish to marry poor Trixy through pique,” he 
added, anxiously. 

“ Oh, Frederick, you must not think that,” cried 


At Last . 


337 


D*ris. “ Karl is too noble for that, I — I — refused 
his love twice,’’ she whispered, dropping her sweet 
blushing face ; “ and the last time, knowing his love 
was all in vain, he promised me that he would try 
his best to forget me. Nothing but a deep, rever- 
ential, brotherly love remains in his heart for me 
now.” 

“ I am very glad to think that,” said Frederick, so 
heartily that Doris could not help but laugh. 

“ Are congratulations in order?” whispered Doris 
to Karl, as she bade him good-night. 

“ Yes,” he answered ; “1 know you will wish me 
all happiness, Doris. I have won for my promised 
bride the dearest and sweetest girl in the whole 
wide world, present company excepted,” he added, 
gallantly. 

“ I am glad for your sake, Karl,” smiled Doris. 
“ Is it to be a triple wedding?” 

“ If you are all agreed,”* he replied. 

“ Of course, we will all be agreed upon that ques- 
tion,” said Doris, heartily ; “’you know that, Karl.” 

Mrs. Lancaster could find no fault with her son’s 
choice. True, the one desire of her heart was that 
he should marry Doris, but seeing that was out of 
the question, she was quite willing to receive dark- 
eyed Beatrix as a daughter. 

The marriages were set for a month from that 


338 


Parted at the Altar. 


day, Frederick declaring that he would not wdt 
twenty-four hours longer, and that he had waked 
too long already to claim lovely Doris. 

Gwendoline and Trixy’s lovers were equally 
anxious that the marriages should take plice as 
soon as possible. 

The long-looked-for day arrived at last, and a 
sunnier, brighter day could never have been wished 
for. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

WEDDING JOY BELLS. 

Preparations for the weddings had been going 
on at Thornton Villa on a grand scale for over 
a fortnight past, and on this eventful morning the 
house and the grounds presented a veritable fairy- 
land appearance. 

The grounds were a bewildering mass of glow- 
ing roses; the fountains, with their tinted waters, 
sparkled like rainbows in the sun ; wherever the 
eye turned it was greeted by banks of delicate 
blooms. 

Long ere the sun had set the guests began to 


Wedding Joy Bells . 


339 


Arrive, and a gayer, merrier throng never made 
the grim old walls of Thornton Villa echo with 
their laughter. One by one the marriages were 
solemnized. First, Gwendolin and Gerald Mar- 
ston’s, then Beatrix and Karl’s, then, last of all, 
Doris and Frederick took their places beneath the 
great horse shoe of white lilies, and the words 
were spoken which gave Frederick, for the second 
time, sweet Doris for his bride. 

The congratulations and the grand collation were 
over at last, and the carriages rolled up to the door 
to bear the brides and happy grooms away ; and as 
the carriages whirled down the avenue again they 
were followed by showers of rice and slippers and 
the best of wishes of the merry throng that 
remained at the villa, keeping up the joy and mirth 
with dancing and revelry far into the “ wee sma’ 
hours.” 

“ My darling — my bride — mine — at last l” whis- 
pered Frederick, as he found himself alone with 
Doris, “ Now, from this hour, love, shall our real 
honeymoon begin,” he declared. “ I will devote the 
remainder of my life to make you as happy as a little 
queen.” 

They had taken passage on the Servia for Europe, 
and among the first names of the passengers booked 
they read Vivian’s name. 


340 


Parted at the Altar. 


There was an angry exclamation of annoyance on 
Frederick’s face as he came back to their state-room 
and told Doris this. 

Two white arms stole round his neck, and a 
lovely, dimpled cheek was pressed close to his. 

“ Do not feel hard against Vivian, Frederick, 
dear,” she said, smiling. “ Heaven made her our 
good angel from the very first. If you had not 
imagined yourself in love with Vivian, and come up 
to Madame Delmar’s seminary, that eventful day, 
to see about taking her to that ball, I should never 
have met you, dear.” 

“Why,' I declare, that’s so!” he said. “ I never 
thought of that, I’m sure.” 

“ And if it had not been for Vivian’s coming to 
Newport, and discovering my identity, I should 
never have been so desperate as to write that letter 
to you revealing the truth that I was Doris, whom 
you mourned as dead.” 

“ By George ! — pray pardon the expression — but 
that’s true, too, Doris. After all, we do owe a great 
deal to Vivian.” 

Great was Vivian’s consternation to find that 
Frederick and his bride were on the same steamer 
with her, but with the natural polish society gives 
to the woman of the world she smothered her 
chagrin, and stepped forward, greeting Doris 


Wedding Joy Bells. 


34i 


gracefully. She had been a little fearful lest Doris 
might give her the cut direct, but she risked it, and 
was more than surprised at Doris’s sweet, cordial 
manner toward her. 

“ You took me at my word that night at New- 
port, Doris,” she said. “ I declare to you I never 
meant one half I said.” 

“ Do not let that trouble you, Vivian,” answered 
Doids, with a grateful smile. “ It proved the bless- 
ing of my life. It re-united me with — my husband.” 

Vivian murmured and smiled and turned away, 
for she saw Frederick approaching, and she could 
not bear to witness the little tendernesses that would 
pass between Doris and her adoring husband. 

“ My plotting and planning to keep them apart 
from first to last has all been in vain,” she muttered. 
“ Heaven’s will was stronger than the will of 
woman. It seems they were intended for each 
other.” 

And standing lonely and alone on the deck, the 
words of the poet occurred to her. Ah ! how true 
they were — how true ! 

“ Two shall be born the whole wide world apart, 

And speak in different tongues, and have no thought 
Each of the other’s being, and no heed ; 

And these o’er unknown seas to unknown lands 
Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death ; 


342 


Parted at the Altar. 


And all unconsciously shape every act 

And bend each wandering step to this one end — 

That one day, out of darkness, they shall meet 
And read life’s meaning in each other’s eyes.” 

Vivian avoided them as much as possible on that 
trip going over, but that, too, was quite a blessing 
in disguise. What need had a happy bride and 
groom for the presence of a third party to interrupt 
their tender love-making ? 

When the steamer landed on the other side they 
lost sight of Vivian. Not long afterward they read 
of her marriage to a duke. The society papers often 
spoke of her after that— of her dresses, her diamonds, 
and her cold, proud beauty. She gained for herself 
the title of “the beautiful icicle.” By that they 
knew Vivian was not happy. And in truth she was 
not — she had not married for love. 

Two years Doris and Frederick spent abroad, and 
at the end of that time, as Doris declared, Frederick 
was more of a lover than ever. 

One sunny morning saw them on board the 
steamer, bound for “ home sweet home.” 

They spent a week at Thornton Villa, then went 
on to the charming home that had been prepared 
for them by Frederick’s forethought at Cornwall-on- 
the-Hudson. And there they now live— the happi- 
est couple the sun ever shone on. 


Wedding Joy Bells . 


343 


One of the kindest and noblest acts Doris ever did 
was, when she heard one day of Madame Delmar’s 
pecuniary troubles, to send her a check for an amount 
which covered her indebtedness. A letter accom- 
panied it, telling Madame Delmar all. 

The check fell from madame’s trembling hands to 
the floor, and her face turned from red to white as 
she read the letter through, then passed it to her 
brother John. 

“ If there was ever a case of 4 heaping coals of fire’ 
on one’s head, here it is,” cried madame, with a burst 

of tears. 44 1 am glad she bears no ill will towards 

__ »> 
me. 

“There are few young girls who would have for- 
given you for the way you treated little Doris, and 
she has repaid you, like the angel she is,” said John 
Delmar, huskily. 

44 Who ever thought in those days that Doris was 
destined for a great lady?” she said, slowly. 

44 Treat every one kindly, and you will never come 
amiss,” replied John. 44 Are you intending to accept 
the check ?” 

44 1 suppose I must,” sobbed madame ; 44 but I shall 
try to repay Doris some day.” 

Ten years have passed since then ; but it does not 
seem to have added a day to Doris’s appearance, 
except to expand the girl into a most gloriously 


344 


Parted at the Altar . 


beautiful woman. She is the same Doris as of yore, 
only her eyes are a deeper blue, the sweet mouth a 
little more resolute, and her hair has taken on a 
deeper and more golden sheen, and is done up now 
in a coil more becoming t.o a wife than the fluffy, 
golden curls waving about the pretty, dimpled face 
when we first introduced her to our readers as a 
school-girl. 

Mrs. Thornton loves Frederick’s wife quite as 
dearly as her own daughters, all of whom are 
married now, and are living around her. 

Madame Delmar still keeps the seminary at 
Beech Grove for young ladies and misses, and there 
is a room set apart for little lads as well as little 
lassies. One summer morning a lovely child of, 
perhaps some eight years stands on the seminary 
steps, with a roguish pout on her saucy, red lips, 
because she has been kept in half of the recess to 
do her lessons. 

If you ask her what her name is she will raise 
two lovely blue-bells of eyes, and shake back her 
sunny curls as she answers : 

“Papa calls me ‘pet’ and ‘little sunshine,’ but 
my mamma calls me ‘ Doris Vivian Thornton.’ Do 
you see that little boy over yonder, with the wide 
sailor collar and dark curls ? Well, that is my little 


Wedding Joy Bells . 


345 


brother Karl. He is named after my aunt Trixy’s 
husband.” 

Sunshine and shadows cross every household more 
or less ; but, taken all in all, it would be difficult to 
find a happier family than that of Doris and Freder- 
ick. 

What is there to add when those whom we have 
followed through trials and adversity reach the acme 
of earthly happiness at last? 

Re-united after many days, heart to heart and 
soul to soul, we will leave them, dear reader, these 
two who were so cruelly parted, almost at the 
altar. 

“ Oh, love, if life should be 
Merely the golden key 
To love more vast ; 

If there should be a place 
Where spirits can embrace, 

And kisses last.” 


THE END. 


A New Book by the Author of “ The Beads of 
Tasmer.” 


MRS. BARR’S SHORT STORIES. 

“Femmetia’s Strange Experience” and 
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“ The Beads of Tasmer,” by Mrs. Amelia E. Barr, is a power- 
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uous ambition which a combination of ancient pride and modern 
greed inspires ; the loveliness of the Scotch maidens, both High- 
landers and Lowlanders ; the deep religious nature of the people ; 
the intense manifestation of these characteristic traits by Scotch 
lovers of high and low degree ; the picturesque life of the coun- 
try, involving the strangest vicissitudes of fortune and the exhibi- 
tion of the most loving and loyal devotion, constitute a theme 
which is of the highest intrinsic interest, and which is developed 
by the accomplished authoress with consummate art and irresist- 
ible power. “ The Beads of Tasmer ” is certainly one of Mrs. 
Barr’s very best works, and we shall be much mistaken if it does 
not take high rank among the most successful novels of the 
century. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
pn receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


THE LITTLE COUNTESS. 


BY 

E. VON DINCKLAGE, 

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 

By S. E. BOGGS. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 


12mo. 318 Pages. Handsomely Bound in Cloth. Price, $1.00. 

Paper Cover^ 50 Cents. 

“ The Little Countess” is a delightful novel. It is full of life 
and movement, and, in this respect, is superior to most transla- 
tions from the German. It is distinctly a story to be read for 
pure enjoyment. The little countess belongs to an ancient and 
noble family. She is left an orphan in a lonely’tdd castle, with a 
few servants and pets. Her heroic temper sustains her in every 
trial. The part played by an American girl in the story is very 
amusing, and shows what queer ideas are entertained of American 
women by some German novelists. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

COR. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


V 


~v . ' ; ' ■ : ' - 

A CAPITAL AMERICAN STORY. 


UNDER A CLOUD. 

BY JEAN KATE LUDLUM, 

Author of <( Under Oathf etc . 

ILLUSTRATED BY WARREN B. DAVIS. 


12 mo. 300 Pages. With Numerous Illustrations. Handsomely 
Bound in Cloth, Price, $1.00. Paper Cover, 50 Cents. 


It was once asked by a celebrated Englishman : “ Who reads 
an American Book ?” The question is no longer a conundrum. 
American books are the popular reading of the present day. 
“ Under a Cloud” is a spirited and pathetic account of the trials 
of a New York lady, who, in consequence of a promise wrung 
from her by her father, is put into relations with her husband 
which are almost uuprecedented. The chain of circumstances 
by which the husband is implicated in a crime and the heroic 
efforts of the wife to traverse this chain and unravel the mystery 
make a history of overpowering interest. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, 
on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

ROBERT BONNER’S SONS, 

Cor. William and Spruce Streets, New York. 


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